


Those Roadhouse Blues

by Daphne_Fredriksen



Category: The Man in the High Castle (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Period Typical Attitudes, Period Typical Language, mostly canonical, some adultery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-08-23 02:18:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 53
Words: 31,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16610006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daphne_Fredriksen/pseuds/Daphne_Fredriksen
Summary: This novel is about John Smith (TMITHC).  In this story, he goes beyond Nazi headquarters in NYC, on a special fact-finding mission.  But there may be more to what John's doing and experiencing out in the hinterlands than just accomplishing a mission for the Reich...





	1. Billings, Montana

Billings. Billings, Montana, of all places. Well, thought the Reichsmarschall, this has been a new experience.

A light-skinned negress in a tight-ish black dress brought him a beer with a whiskey chaser. He sniffed at the beer – accustomed to the excellent beer of the Reich, the slop was barely drinkable. But the whiskey – coming from God knows where - was excellent.

He sat alone at a table in front of the left front corner of the stage, close to the door, and somewhat in the dark, even when the stage was lit.

Which is how he wanted it. Able to see, but not be seen. John Smith – or rather, Dave Finn, to use his alias – was not a man who wanted to be known; he knew that he was in danger if he were to be recognized. This was the mixing ground at the edge of the Neutral Zone.

John sipped the whiskey, fiddled with a matchbox in his fingers. If he were recognized by the Resistance, he might be killed; even more likely, he’d be held hostage or prisoner. He imagined low-level, unskilled goons trying to milk information before killing him. He snorted a chuckle at that thought – used as he had used so many others.

He could bear that, he thought; turnabout was fair play, and it bothered him no more than it would have bothered him if he’d have been killed in battle during the war. Other threats preyed on his mind…

There were the bounty hunters: opportunists who were “the law” in this lawless place, to kill Jews, turn in Resistance, spy on suspects – dirty deeds, done dirt cheap – anything that had a payoff. He’d used a few, like that “Marshal” guy down in Canon City , and if they recognized him, under his assumed name, they would think he was defecting or running, and turn him in. Or just kill him and try to get the presumed price on his scalp.

Then, there were the Nazi true believers – the old Rockwellites. The ones who knew that the Reichsmarschall was on temporary leave, for “health reasons”, according to the limited press releases. They too smelled something was up, and would turn him over to that faction, or again, kill him themselves and toss his body to their vulture-lords.

He turned those two groups over in his mind – he had the cover of leave, after all, and he hoped it would serve him well. If not, he could persuade them to call the Führer himself, perhaps. If needed, he could let them know of his “true purpose”, the mission he had on behalf of the Reich.

He bent back a few more matches. Himmler had let him a go on mission - to get intelligence to quell the Resistance. All right, that was dangerous enough. But If anyone knew the real reason that makes me snoop around these backwater towns, John thought, my life wouldn’t be worth two cents, to anybody…

Two stringy cowboys walked in; Smith noticed with distaste that the two were holding hands. He looked again at the negress who’d brought his drinks; she was leaning on the bar and chatting it up with an older man in a bomber’s jacket. After a while, she went over and picked up empty glasses from a table of what looked like _braceros _.__

All these people, who’d come here for freedom from the Reich, with its stringent policies. If they knew him as one of the top men in the Greater Nazi Reich, of the policies he’d condoned and sometimes implemented, their hatred of what he stood for might drive them to murderous fury.

 

John gulped the last of the beer. Images swam into his mind. He didn’t like to admit it, but if he had been them - these runners, these escapees, these fugitives from the Pure Race – he would have been happy to shoot him, too.

 


	2. Please Welcome Daphne Leigh

The negress brought another round to his table, and the stagelights turned on. The musicians came back, checking and re-tuning their instruments, taking their places. The MC – a small oily fellow in blue jeans and a tuxedo jacket – came on. “Ladies and Gentlemen, for our second set this evening, please welcome, the sultry songstress, the silky stylings, of the luscious, Daphne Leigh!” A tallish woman in a lavender sequined gown took the stage.

_“Oh the shark, babe/ has such teeth dear/ and he shows them/ pearly white…” ___

____

John smiled, admiring the singer. She was good – too good for this venue. And not good enough for the Reich.

____

She was not classically trained. She would never be an opera singer for the Kulturhalle, and, John knew, she would have scorned to be. “Not my gig,” she would have said.

____

_“Just a jack-knife/ has old MacHeath, babe/ and he keeps it, out of sight…” ___

______ _ _

No, she had a voice for popular music – not the pop music of the Reich, that bubbly stuff that seeped out of tenement windows and teenager’s picnics – but the kind that there was before. He tossed back the shot, realizing that there was something in her voice, a sultriness that both took him to a place a little before the war, and someplace different, someplace that might have been, if the war hadn’t ended like it had.

______ _ _

_“Ya know when that shark bites/ with his teeth babe/ scarlet billows/ start to spread…” ___

________ _ _ _ _

The stage light – overbright as it was – glanced off her hair, almost making it look platinum. But it wasn’t really, it was ash-blonde, soft waves of it, curling behind her ears. John took a large gulp of the lukewarm brew. She had her stage face on – bright red lipstick, heavy kohl – making her look harder, sleeker than she was. 

________ _ _ _ _

_“Fancy gloves, oh/wears old MacHeath, babe/ so there’s never/ never a trace of red…” ___

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

The negro waitress brought yet another round. 

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Sipping the beer, John watched Miss Leigh, ignoring the song, focussing on the singer. The evening gown was tattier than it ought to be, some of the sequins missing. The room was warm; her dress was tight; and he saw with some pleasure that there was light perspiration on her shoulders and cleavage. He was feeling lubricated; he half-realized that his mind’s eye was imagining her peel off that gown in her dressing room…

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

He sat upright, gulped down the whiskey chaser. This would never do . If a man had thoughts he’d better know how to control them, and more than that, he needed to think straight. Be dead sober, or be dead.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _


	3. The Man For The Job

Several months before, the Reichsmarshall had other plans. He had been apprised of Himmler and Dörmer’s evil mania for Jahr Null or whatever they called the insanity of destroying American symbols and landmarks, and he was expected to follow through on their stupid plans; he had his cat-and-mouse games with Hoover and Rockwell to maintain his own power; he still had the Man in the High Castle to catch. He had averted Rockwell’s plot, and become Reichsmarshall – far unhappier about the post than Rockwell who gloried in it - but it was necessary, and now, he could not escape.

More than that, he had his family. He had remaining children to raise – and remembering the fervid way Amy had jumped up and Sieg Heil-ed at that mockery of a ceremony for Thomas, he shuddered. All, _all _, of his beloved ones had been so carefully indoctrinated by he and Helen, out of caution, out of fear, that they had become… true Nazis. And, he had Helen to care for, to help hold her up. Broken, beautiful, brave Helen.__

Storms broke, one by one. The films, with his son who was surely dead - yet in those films, so alive and happy. The sleep-deprived nights, tormented by dreams. The betrayal of the therapist kissing Helen – or had she kissed the therapist? (His Helen – he did not know what to believe.) And then, her flight with the girls, her telling him she loved him but was afraid of him. How could he bear up after that?

But bear up he did, because he had to. He met with the Japanese Trade Minister – to what purpose? There was the trial of the anomaly in the Poconos that allowed travel to other worlds and dimensions; Mengele’s manic, perverted glee, and that dreadful butchery of the innocent “experimental” subjects. He had captured the Man in the High Castle and then Juliana; he tortured them in his holding cells, and they tortured him with their words.

Jahr Null continued its awful way and he was forced to see his childhood icon, Lady Liberty, blown to bits. And the mobs, all those – children – running amok with torches and stones, destroying libraries, museums, the best of civilization, then battling like guerrillas - for what? Then the assassination attempt on Himmler. Juliana, traveling. And then, Abe Hawkins/Abendsen traveling.

The Reich doctors were skilled, and they stabilized the Führer, enough to keep command. For the while, an entire floor in a hospital in NYC turned into recovery suite, and the floor below made into temporary offices, making it the command center of the entire Reich.

On recovery, Smith informed the Führer that Abendsen and Juliana Crain had escaped. No, there was no explanation for how this happened (None that Smith cared to give to the High Command, anyway; the mandatory report was vague and fabricated as hell, but plausible). Himmler was furious, and of course, the guards were to be killed. (Smith sighed inside himself – they were young and seemed like decent young men, but it couldn’t be helped.)

Smith concluded the this escape certainly meant the Resistance was present, even in the big Eastern cities. He suggested that, as he was the only one to capture Abendsen in the first place, it was he who should go out, re-capture Abendsen, and Juliana Crain, too. This time, he promised, he would send Miss Crain directly to Chief Inspector Kido of the Kempeitai. This would strengthen ties with the JPS, which were needed. With Resistance movements in both areas of America, cooperation was needed to share information and put it down. Since the Chief Inspector had a dislike of Crain, he would be sure to put her down for good.

Meanwhile, the Reichsmarschall pointed out, as he closed in on Abendsen, he would learn more about the Resistance through his contacts and intelligence; get a sense of how strong the Resistance was, and where it was the strongest.

Himmler considered. Frowning, he said he did not want to lose his loyal Reichsmarshall, reminding Smith that he had a destiny. Smith allowed the point, but persisted, saying his intelligence skills had always been foremost, from his American service, to his duties as Obergruppenführer and Oberstgruppenführer. He reminded Himmler that his intelligence had prevented a war, and finally brought justice for Hitler’s death.

The old man tapped a finger on the bedtable. He would allow it, but Smith must be in touch at least once a week, and these scouting trips must never exceed 2-2 ½ months at a time, followed by at least a month in HQ. Fortunately, said Himmler, there is another loyal man, a Reichsmarschall from a different region, who could temporarily report at times to manage the day-to-day business of the GNR. Smith was allowed to try his intelligence-gathering, for a while at least.

 


	4. An Indian

An Indian walked in; he was dressed in ranchhand’s clothing, but John noticed his sharp facial features, and the beaded headband on his stetson. They have pride out here; if I could see the pattern, I might be able to tell the tribe, he thought. He remembered his childhood fascination with Indians: their warfare, their hunting; their crafts, and their tribal identities.

He grimaced, thinking back to Thomas. Such a good son, an obedient and thoughtful boy, growing up a dutiful young man. Yet, when he tried to share his own boy-scoutish enthusiasm with him, he failed.

“You know, when I was learning American history,” he told Thomas, when the boy was about 7 or 8, “I thought for sure I would have to marry an Indian princess!” He winked. Thomas drew back, horrified. “I’m kidding, Tommy; I’m glad I married your mother. But you know… Captain Smith and Pocahontas…”

They boy shook his head vigorously. “But, how could anyone even _imagine _marrying a mud race? They are stupid and inferior.”__

__“Thomas!” said John sharply, “you’re wrong to call them stupid!” The boy flinched at his father’s disapproval. John sighed, searching for words he could say. He softened his tone. “Look at it this way. When you’re in someone else’s arena – which the colonists & settlers were – you need to learn from them. They have knowledge of the grounds for battle, and they have a native cunning.”_ _

__The boy swallowed – he wanted so much to please his parents. “I... I guess so, Father. But… I’m glad you married Mother.” And being a tender-hearted boy, he came into Smith’s arms when John went to hug him. But John could feel that he was struggling between the father’s information, and what his books and school told him._ _


	5. Spend An Extra Night

John put his head wearily in his hands. He wasn’t going to drink anymore, he had told himself, but one more wouldn’t kill him. He walked to the bar, keeping his hand on the wall (he wasn’t going to have anyone sneak up on him, no, not in this dangerous no-man’s-zone of lawlessness) and reached the back corner of the bar. “Bourbon & branch,” he ordered.

“Honey, you’re gonna be no good at home tonight if you keep lappin’ up all that likker,” cooed the blonde sitting next to him.

Her lilac sequins shone dully. John looked up toward the stage. That’s right; this was Washboard Jones’s part of the set. The boy blew that trumpet like a maniac.

“Well, maybe I won’t come home. Maybe I’ll just wander the streets, seeing what I can find out about the world. Lots to know out there…”

“Hon, right now you’re working at not knowing your Mother’s middle name. What’s up, kid? This isn’t like you… the brush bizness treating you bad?” She referred to his Fuller Brush sales; his cover.

Smith swirled the booze in his glass. “Maybe. Maybe I should sleep at that stupid hotel tonight, think things out. “

“Yer low on funds so yer paying to get bedbugs in a scuzzy hotel? Look, Davie, I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but you go on back to my dressing room and take my key. I’m gonna be here a coupla hours, you know. Slap some cold water on your face, take a nap on the couch, think it out. Will spending an extra night kill ya?”

“No, I don’t suppose it will…”

“Attaboy. Remember to leave the door unlocked for me.”

He leaned over and kissed the cheek she offered. She smelled of cigarettes and scented face powder. “All right,” he said, “Don’t be too late.”


	6. A Drunk Indian

John started walking toward Daphne’s place. He needed the air to clear his head from the smoke.

He got to a crossing… He could turn right, and in a few blocks he’d be in the café singer’s flat. Go straight ahead, and he would get to the main part of downtown, crash in the hotel . (Contrary to what he let Daphne think, he had it rented by the month.) If the Führer should call, he’d be able to get the call, not have to deal with a message. There was a danger in being out of touch for too long.

Then he considered the boozy whirling in his head, and whether it was worse to be unavailable to unexpected calls from High Command, or to be available and possibly limited in his faculties, due to drink. The latter was worse. He could apologize for absence; he could not take back a slip of the lip or a lapse of judgment.

Slipping his hand into his pocket, he remembered that he had Daphne’s key; she’d be locked out if he didn’t go home. (He guessed she’d find him, but it’d be awkward.) Homeward, then…

He heard steps behind him, _sensed _them – Smith could be falling down drunk, yet his senses would warn him of threats to his person. (He’d found that much out during the War.) Smith whirled around. It was the Indian with the cowboy hat. “Hey!” said the Indian in an overly-friendly voice.__

 

“Are you following me? What do you want? Who are you?”

 

The Indian staggered, three sheets to the wind. “Uhhn? Don’t you know me, buddy?”

 

“I’ll ask the questions, half-breed.”

 

The Indian stood stock still, as if shocked into sobriety. “You ain’t who I thought you was!”

 

There was a long pause. The Indian swayed in place again, wobbling like a top.

 

Smith took a step forward. “Who did you think I was?” The Indian giggled and hiccupped. “Don’t laugh at me. Answer me!”

 

“Aww, maaaaaaaann! I just a drunk Indyan! Thought you was a guy I knew. Long ways back. I fer-got. He’s DE-AD!” He wheezed, slapped his knee, then wheezed some more, choking…

 

Smith slapped him on the back, hoping the guy wasn’t choking on his own vomit. He didn’t want the man to die; the guy didn’t know him, after all, and wasn’t gonna harm him. 

 

“Hey, thanks, man,” said the guy, when he could breathe again. He stood up. John looked into the lined face, guesstimated that the man was about his age, though worn down. Same make, but more mileage. “I’ll be on my way now.”

 

“Ok, Chief.” Then, in a softer voice, “Just be careful with the booze, ok? We gotta watch it, at our ages.”

 

“Yeah, ” said the Indian, “That we do, coupla ole warhorses like us. G’night, man.”

 


	7. No One Cares About Those Days

It was well into morning; the sun stabbed his eyes and Daphne was up, humming in the kitchen. He rolled over and the Murphy bed squeaked. 

He got up. It never took Smith long to get ready, and soon he was in the kitchen, helping himself to eggs and coffee. “Good morning,” he said. He leaned over to let her kiss his cheek.

“G’mornin’, you ok this mornin’? Seems like you drank more than usual last night…”

Smith slupped his coffee. “I might have had an extra drink, but I’ve drunk more and gotten up earlier.”

“I bet you have.” She was humming an old song; Rum ‘n’ Coca-Cola, it sounded like. 

“I have some territory to scout today, towards Park City; something I’ve been neglecting. I’ll be back late tonight, if at all.”

“Okey-dokey. Phew, you’re getting to know this country better than me. I got some new songs to practice today with Wash an’ the boys.”

“I like the old songs. Like what you were humming this morning. “ 

Daphne stamped out a cigarette, giving him a wry smile.

“It would be nice to hear more like that in your set.”

She lit a new one. “Ahhh, no one wants to hear that old stuff…”

“I bet there are people who do. I do.”

“Oh, Davie. No one cares about those days. No one ‘round here, anyway.” Her tone was gentle. “Maybe in Chicago you reminisce about that stuff (John had told her he was from the Midwest), but here there’s so many young people; why, they don’t even know. Those of us who do, don’t want to remember.”

John wrinkled his brow.

“Oh, ok,” she said, “if you want that old truck…”

She put an old record on the phonograph. A woman sang, “ _We’ll meet again/ Don’t know where/ Don’t know when … _" She moved to the melody. He went to her, put his arms around her; they began dancing. He couldn’t help it, almost. So natural…__

____

Still, he had to bring it up. “How about the Resistance folks? Do they find… meaning in it?”

____

She let out a short laugh. “Resistance? What does an ole nightclub singer like me know about ‘the Resistance’ ?” Nah, they’re just songs from the War-We-Lost. Who needs it? ” She rested her head against him, singing softly, “ _‘Keep smiling through/ Just like you always do/ Till blue skies drive the dark clouds away…’ _“__

______ _ _

“I find meaning in it,” thought John, “I need it.” He brushed his lips in her hair. This, too, he needed; this woman dancing in his arms. For a while.

______ _ _


	8. Calling HQ

He’d gotten a late start, but at last he was on track. He’d called HQ, talked directly with Himmler. The Führer was not happy to be interrupted; he much preferred being the caller to the callee. But, John told him, he was going to be out of town for a few days. He stated that he found a rebel cell west of Billings that needed looking into.

“Seems an odd area. I’ve never heard of actions there.”

“The Resistance is very mobile now. For one thing, there’s the Canadian NZ, not very far off, and besides, there’s the Indigenes,” said Smith, using the Reich term for the Indians. “Little Bighorn is only about a 100 miles away, and less than 100 years ago.”

 

Himmler considered. “Hmmm. _Du bist richtig!_ That would be some good history to erase, at some point soon. We shall talk about that in coming weeks, when you’ve returned. Go. Success on your trip, Reichsmarschall. Don’t be too long.”

So he headed west, a thermos of coffee and some cheese sandwiches in the car.


	9. Jimmy Red Cloud

John drove the old Nash west of town, on the main trunk, heading as if to Park City, as he said. About 20 miles out of town, he spotted an old mailbox on a gravel road, with no house around, off to his left; a black tie was wrapped around the post. He turned left up the gravel road, and was soon hidden from the main road by the gullies and low hills.

He wound about, cautiously; he’d only come here a couple of times, scouting the route, and though he placed markers, he felt ill-at-ease driving in this environment of brown dust and sage. Every time he’d come, he searched nervously for lost steers from someone’s ranch, or some sign that a rogue miner might be scratching for stakes again.

Well, he wasn’t so different than those old squatters, himself. He was different, though, in that he had a clear idea about his ideal find.

There was an uprooted sagebrush and a coyote skeleton on one the side of the road, and Smith veered on the opposite side of the lane (you could hardly call it a road.) Soon the Nash bumped into some ruts, and the lane took him, as of its own will, up the side of a wash.

John carefully turned the wheels, and ate his sandwiches and coffee as leisurely if this was his favorite picnic spot in the whole world. He scanned the tops of the hills, looked around carefully, replaced the thermos top, and went to the trunk. He pulled his rucksack, which had rope, flashlight, a first aid kit, and some c-rats he’d picked up in South Dakota (and which he hoped were still good.) He took off his loafers and put on some boots, some chaps to protect his slacks, and a field coat. Last, he grabbed his shotgun and ammo, putting a few shells in, just in case.

When he was on foot, he had a good sense of direction, a good recollection of trails walked. But out of long habit he looked behind him, memorizing the view, even though he’d come here and left trailmarkers before.

Soon the trail, which had been going uphill for some time, sloped downward and took a curve. John shielded his eyes and caught the little bit of shadow from the indent of the rock. He was about a half-mile off, and would be there soon.

As the trail curved down, Smith started to sweat, even though the gully was cool. He felt the ammo in his coat pocket.

Now the trail curved up, and he came to the indent… the entrance to a small cave, really. Smith turned to fully survey the path he’d just walked up; all clear, then looked the other directions, including what he could see of the top of the rock. All clear, too, and he knelt down to reach into his rucksack, pulling the flashlight.

He heard a soft padding, like the movements of an animal, coming from in front of him. His saliva turned bitter, and he hastily tried to turn on the flashlight; in his haste, he dropped it. The metal seemed to make a thunderous noise on the rocks below, and John bit his tongue hard to keep from swearing. He looked up.

A figure came up to him from inside the cave. As he walked over to the kneeling man, Smith noticed the moccasins, and realized the source of the padding noise. The man was his age; lined face; jeans and a deerskin shirt. And of course, the stetson; John looked up at the drunk Indian from last night, drunk no longer.

The Indian moved his hat back on his head, and scratched his neck, not quite knowing himself what to do. John noticed that the Indian had a shotgun, same as he; in fact, the same type shotgun. Which, cradled in the Indian’s arm, would require all of 5 seconds to blow John Smith off the rock forever.

John chanced it. “Hey Chief,” he said breezily. “Good to see you. I suppose we both slept deep last night, after all our intake.”

The Indian cocked the barrels into position. He pursed his mouth, then scratched his cheek. Then, a grin spread across his face, and burst out into a loud laugh. “Oh, yeah! You! You’re my dead friend who warns me ‘bout drinkin’! How you doin’?” He helped John to his feet.

John thanked him, searching his face; it was still in shadow. The Indian walked out; yes, it was the same lined face. It had an easy familiarity; the kind of face you might see anywhere around here, but John felt like he *did* remind him of someone. Some faces were like that.

The Indian walked him out of the cave, leading him on a part of the trail that wound around the rock, into more hills and gullies. John frowned; he’d wanted to go into that cave today, but that was impossible. He looked around carefully, to not get lost, and then too, maybe there was more than one way of accessing this place.

“So,” continued the Indian, “you are following the Muleys too?” He nodded at the gun.

Muleys, thought John, oh, that would be Mule Deer. “Yes, yes I am. Thought a taste of venison might be nice.” He wished he had just called it deer meat.

“I bet. You don’t get much of that Back East. Pretty well hunted out, back there, innit?

“Um, yes. Not much hunting there at all,” agreed John. Fact was that hardly anyone hunted, because only Party higher-ups like himself owned guns, and the little guys didn’t – at least none that they carried very openly. The Reich controlled that with an iron fist. John thanked his lucky stars that this Native from the sticks didn’t know that little detail about the GNR. Maybe ignorance is keeping me safe, he thought.

“So. You know I’m from Back East. Is there a lot of talk about me in town? Is Billings the kind of place where everyone knows everyone’s business?”

“Billings is the kind of place where everyone is from somewhere else - unless they’re from around here.” He grinned again. “And either way, they don’ care, so longs you leave them alone and don’t ask. “ The Indian pulled a pouch of chewing tobacco, offered some (John didn’t want it), and put a wad in his cheek. “Nah, most people don’t look beyond the tip of their noses.”

Red Cloud chewed, thoughtfully. He spit softly and continued. “I saw you and Daph in the bar last night. She ‘n’ I are ole friends, you see; kinda look out for each other. So I asked if you were an all right fella. She thought so. She seemed mighty happy to have you around. Even if you are just a Midwest travelling salesman. “

“She’s been kind, and most generous,” said Smith, a bit defensively.

“Yeah, she can be. Specially with a good-looking man like yerself.”

Smith turned to glare, but the Indian had no malice on his face, just a look that said, “You’ve got advantages; why not use it?”

“Well, I won’t hurt her, Mr…. Uhm?...”

“Jimmy. Jimmy Red Cloud.” The Indian stuck out his hand.

“Jimmy, nice to meet you. I’m Dave Finn. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll get back to…”

“Getting you and Daph some deer meat, yeah. If you backtrack and go into that sage flat…” Red Cloud pointed back down the trail and well away from the cave, “You’ll find some lumps of salt toward the back. The Muleys just love to come there.”

“Thanks.” Smith headed down, knowing that Red Cloud would be tailing him, at least to the cave. He’d have to come back a different day. He also knew that even though he was being watched, he wouldn’t be shot. Not today; or at least, not by Red Cloud.

John stayed in the sage flat, pretending to hunt, ‘til it was safe to give up. As he put his gear back into the car, a funny notion crossed his brain. The man went by Jimmy, but to John he looked more like a Louie, or Lou. Odd. But what did it matter what an old Indian was called?


	10. The Reel Unwinds

All the way back to the outskirts of town, the man’s name preyed on his mind, as did the fact that he hadn’t got into the cave, after all. He needed to explore that cave; he had hoped he was the only one who knew about it. Obviously that wasn’t the case… but why was Red Cloud there? Was he using it for camping, hunting? Was he the only one? What were the secrets of the cave, and who knew them?

He was running out of time. The Führer would be wanting him back soon.

Smith stopped at a liquor store on his way into town, grabbing some whiskey, then drove on to the hotel. It wasn’t the greatest hotel, and it wasn’t the worst. He had them send up a steak dinner, which he wolfed down . Tonight he would not go to the roadhouse; tonight he had things to catch up on.

He closed the drapes, pulled a sheet off the bed and hung it over the drapes. His hands trembled as he set up the projector and loaded the reels. The film canister clanged as it hit the floor.

“I’m drinking too much,” thought Smith. But he couldn’t give it up; not yet, anyhow. He alternated between two needs : the need to remember his family, watching the films or looking at photos ‘til tears streamed down his face; or the need to blot them out with tawdry music, and keeping company with his lovely Blonde, who always flattered and soothed him. Whichever of those needs possessed him, the whiskey was always there.

Tonight, he needed the films. He didn’t even pay attention to which one he picked.

The spool unwound. It was him and Thomas, toasting each other with a soda, in front of a store. There were the TVs, in quite a display, and that strange negro in the middle of each of them, speaking at a podium. Smith dragged on his cigarette; he had no idea what this meant. But the projected images of him and his son were watching earnestly and quietly. Thomas seemed unsurprised, which astounded John. While he could remember colored people Back East, before the War, to his knowledge Thomas had never seen a negro in person.

They were talking in the film, but without sound. Thomas leaned back, facing frontwards again. He took a swig from his soda bottle and mouthed some words. Smith rewound the film, watching Thomas’s mouth. He had never seen that before. It looked like he was saying “Admire him…”

Smith gulped his whiskey, paused the film to look at the canister. _“Langer”_ it said. Were there multiple films of the same scene? He had grabbed some extra films from his stash when he drove out of New York. Clearly the ones he had viewed in the apartment were the tip of the iceberg.

 

He resumed the film. He and Helen and Thomas were goofing off on the sidewalk, himself dancing a bit and clearly embarrassing his teenage son. That’s what Dads should do, thought John; embarrass their kids. Why didn’t I take the time to goof off with Thomas? To be silly with the girls? Then there were Amy and Jennifer, running up, jumping up and down for something. Amy dragged them to a pony ring, Oh!, she wanted a pony ride! Helen took money out of her purse, motioning for Thomas to take them.

 

Alone, and leaning against some part of the boardwalk, Helen and John kissed. This was too bitter, but he couldn’t not watch the figures. The projected Helen rubbed his shoulders and let her hand slide down his back. Soon, John knew, the image of himself would be kissing her neck; he slid his hand toward his crotch, knowing that in the film, as in the here and now, his passion would be growing. Helen would shoo the camera away and his figure in the film would turn it off. He would too, in real-time, pretending that this had really happened, and that she were here with him now...

 

…instead, the film went to static-y frames, and John sat up. This was something new, some shot he hadn’t seen. He and Helen and Thomas were standing in front of a bus. Thomas had a new suitcase. He seemed taller, older than he was in the earlier part of the film, and his face was calm but determined, just as John had seen it every time his son had faced and beaten an obstacle. Thomas put his suitcase in the bus compartment, then hugged his mother. Helen was clearly proud, but apprehensive; she kissed him, then wiped off a lipstick smudge.

 

Thomas boarded the bus, and John went up a few of the steps to hug him goodbye. Thomas walked toward the middle and sat down in an aisle seat in the middle; he was next to an older version of that girl from his school, the one he liked.

 

“But… this bus?” thought John, looking at the film. There were people with noses and faces who looked to him like they could be Jewish; there were Colored, and they were setting next to white people.

 

The bus driver smiled at him. Smith paused the film, shaking. All those young people, clearly the rejects of society, the ones who were going to be put down for the greater good. A dream image recurred to him, he and Wegener walking in Cincinnati, Wegener’s mouth starting to form words.

 

John peeked at the film again. There was no Wegener there, of course – it was an image from his own feverish brain. The bus driver looked friendly, and the faces on the young people were fresh and hopeful. Hopeful? How could this be, when they were being sent to their death?

 

Something was not making sense. Perhaps he was so guilt-ridden at Thomas turning himself in that he was imagining the worst. If this was an alternate world… maybe something else was going on that he’d find out about, if he just kept watching…

 

Smith looked again at the faces, so clearly outsiders, or of the wrong race. Even before the war, many whites looked down on Jews and Coloreds, some actively so. The races didn’t mix, not then, not now. As far as John could guess, why would they even in some alternate now?

 

Older, odder images came to John’s mind now. Going to DC, seeing the Lincoln Memorial as a kid, long before Himmler destroyed it; Mother reading the inscriptions aloud. Parades, for the long-defunct 4th of July, and very old men being driven in honor in jalopies. “Civil War Veterans” his Father had said, and when John and his brother pointed, amazed at seeing a Negro in Union blue, Father nodded. “Yes, boys, they fought, too. And they were very brave.”

 

Maybe there was something in that; maybe this was a field trip of some kind, regarding the Civil War, thought John. Though he could hardly imagine what. But if there was… leave it to Thomas to love history.

 

“I’ll watch it… later,” said John, turning off the film. He was too shook up, now. He considered going to see Daphne at the nightclub, after all. Or maybe he’d just hide in bed with this quart of booze…

 

He and Helen should have lit out for the territories, back when Thomas was a baby. Then maybe this would be home, and Helen would be making venison steaks with gravy, and the Nazis wouldn’t be calling in the chits.

 


	11. What's Your Team?

Smith woke up early, curled into a cramped position. His head was pounding, his muscles were sore, his clothes were wrinkled, and he smelled a sharp alcoholic smell. The bottle had dropped to the floor, spilling its contents. John cursed. He’d drunk most of it, but it was good whiskey, and it appeared there was about 1/3 left before the accident. He’d have liked to have finished that last third now – hair of the dog and all that.

The reels were still on the projector. John wanted to see the film again, but decided to sober up. So he carefully put the reel back into the canister, and went to the bathroom for a lukewarm shower. There was a 24-hour diner a few blocks away, and even though the morning air would be cool, John thought the walk, along with coffee and flapjacks, might do him good.

The diner was crowded this morning. They were pretty much all guys, half of them still in their hats and coats - men stuck in offices all day, traveling salesmen, the occasional tradesman who found himself downtown. He nibbled at some bacon when his eyes lit upon a curly-haired man in a denim shirt.

The guy was talkative, it seemed, and John thought he heard a slight brogue. Then the talk stopped, and the guy was looking at him.

John continued chewing, showing no concern. He’d been recognized. But not placed. 

The guy walked back, as if heading to the restroom, then stopped. “Don’t I know you, Mac?” he asked.

“It’s Dave. And no, you probably don’t. I’m scouting a sales route.” John picked up the _Gazette _.__

____

“Sure, but you look familiar. Where’s your home territory?” 

____

“Chicago.”

____

“Yeah? How about that? I’ve spent my time in the Windy City. It’s probably as close to a home as I’ve got.” The guy leaned in, fixing beady blue eyes on Smith. “What’s your team?” 

____

It was a trick question. There was only one team in Chicago anymore. If you said the real team, the Norsemen – who had taken over at Wrigley Field - you were pegged for a party hack, or at least a complacent boob. If you said the White Sox, you were Resistance – or at least a sore loser.

____

“The Cubbies,” said John, folding the paper wearily. “I haven’t got a team anymore, and the folks moved to Evanston when baseball died. Maybe I’ll retire and join ‘em.” 

____

“Aw, don’t be sore.”

____

John got up, slupping the last of his coffee and leaving a tip. “Maybe I just miss playing hooky in the afternoon to catch a double-header.” And with that, he left.

____


	12. The Business of Neutralizing

John walked back to the hotel, thinking about the man. He had seen the face before, from pictures from Chicago and some other cities. More than that, he’s seen him Back East, a long time ago, during the last few months before total capitulation. John was a Nazi and a member of the Reich by then; he and Helen had finally left Cincinnati, had a new home and fresh start in New York. 

Wegener was still technically his commander, but that would change in a few months. Meanwhile, Smith was ordered to scout out any fighting groups in the city, and neutralize them. 

“Neutralize?” asked Smith. “By what means?” It had come as some surprise to Smith that there *was* a resistance. He thought – he had been told as a POW – that Virginia Beach and Dayton had settled things for the Reich months, if not years ago. And his duties in Cincinnati had apparently kept him from the larger picture.

“By whatever means you consider necessary,” said Wegener. “Really, John, you have been in command, and will be again, soon. You know you must make up your own mind.”

“I was in command under US Army protocols. These new protocols seem… “ he looked carefully at his commander. “Rudolph… they still seem… foreign.”

Wegener looked at his second in command with kindness, and a little distress. “Cincinnati was… unusual. I sincerely hope maintaining power will not be quite as brutal. It will be somewhat harsh at first, but hopefully not as brutal.”

Smith looked down, dropped his voice. “I hope so, too.” 

He had been wrong. It was brutal, in a different way. It wasn’t the extended horrors of losing the war, or the newer horrors of having to work in the camp. It had turned out to be the constant work of putting down streetfighters, figuring out tactics, spying on people who in another world you would have loved as neighbors. It was constantly bringing iron justice, sometimes bloody justice, to any infraction to the rules, and any danger to the Reich. It was… guerrilla warfare under the cloak of law & order.

Smith opened a fresh pack of cigarettes, and went to the window, looking in the direction of the diner. The man’s name was Liam, though he sometimes went by Wyatt. Most reports showed him to be a black marketeer, and if John were honest, he could have cared less if “Wyatt” - and every other person in Billings right now - were a marketeer. Let the people in the NZ have their goodies. But that man who asked him about baseball teams…

His memory went back, still to New York, still to being a new Nazi. He’d followed his leads, roughing them up when he had to, and he’d found an Irish bar that was HQ for the Resistance. He had infiltrated it a few times, as had a fresh-faced new lieutenant, Erich Raeder. Raeder, in fact, had provided several names of the top resisters. Smith did further research. Most were vets, some from the Pacific, where he’d served. Some were from the Virginia Beach Campaign, where he should have served.

They entered the bar early one afternoon, incognito, between lunch and happy hour when only the diehards would be there. The conversation turned, as it always did, to sports, then various personal grievances, to remembrances of the war, and memorial toasts to the dead. Like any other Irish bar. Only now it turned political, treasonous. 

Smith ordered them to desist, and surrender. The Resisters closed ranks. Several of the Nazis pulled out guns and the Resisters responded in kind.

Smith had his hand on his pistol too, but he went up to the man in charge. He had read the man’s file – he was a sergeant whose unit had been defeated by Rommel. 

“I want you to surrender. I want you to stop this fighting. Look you’re all good men, I know you are, but you’ve lost, you just don’t know it. Come downtown. I will have to book you, but you can take the Oath.”

The man spit on Smith’s face. “My Oath was to the US Military, to defend this country. Didn’t you take an Oath? What did you do in the war? I still serve the US government!”

“Shut up!” yelled Smith, pistol-whipping the old sergeant, “There is no more US government. That rump “cabinet” is in defiance of the Treaty of Dayton, and you know it! Second-rate war department bureaucrats on the lam, and they’re about to be reeled in!”

Someone started shooting. Smith could do nothing to stop the melee; he could only react. He and the sergeant ducked under a table, struggling like tigers. Smith had his hand on the man’s throat. “Give up, Sergeant. End this nonsense!”

The man struggled, rolled about, kicked and punched Smith, but still there was that hand at his throat. The sergeant raised his hands.

“I surrender,” he wheezed

Smith yelled to his men. “ _Halten sie _! Stop shooting!”__

____

The Nazis stopped shooting, then Resisters. Smith pulled the man up from under the table. He held his gun close to the man’s body, in case. The Resisters – the ones who were alive – stood in confusion, as did most of the Nazis.

____

“You got me. You got me, Smith.” The old man laughed. “Proud’a yerself?” He pulled Smith’s gun hand toward him. Smith lurched forward, felt the pull of the gun, and heard the shot. The sergeant fell, and the Resisters ran. 

____

Smith called young Raeder to him, ordering the rest to secure the bar. Smith and Raeder ran out the back. He saw the Resisters half a block down, piling into a truck – a curly-haired man motioned them, yelling “C’mon” in a brogue. That must have been – John knew now that it was – the mercenary known as “Liam.”

____

The truck peeled away; Raeder spent a few useless shots. Smith staved him off. “Let it be, Erich.”

____

“I was trying to apprehend them, Gruppenführer. The have to be neutralized.”

____

John looked down; he was covered in the Sergeant’s blood. “Their firebrand is dead back there, shooting himself with the enemy’s own gun. They ran like rabbits for their own hide, instead of being martrys along with him. I’d say… they’re neutralized.”

____

“Yes, sir. As you say, sir.”

____

He lifted his face to the young man. “Where are you from, Lieutenant?”

____

“Cedar Rapids, Iowa, sir. American Heartland.”

____

Smith smiled ruefully, “Well, it’s still America, Lieutenant Raeder. Let’s not kill more of our fellow Americans than we have to.”

____


	13. None Of The Scenes From Last Night

Smith got himself a glass of water and thought. Liam hadn’t placed him in the diner – he was sure of that. But… his face was known in the Reich, particularly since becoming Reichsmarschall. He was becoming too well-known; as an intelligence man, this knowledge did not sit well. 

But he was compelled to take these trips. He could now report that Resistance leaders were moving freely in the Neutral Zone, and gain time. He would stay in town, and hope to follow Liam’s trail.

And of course, there was the cave to scout out. With its interesting possibilities. 

As to finding out about other ‘fugitives’ – well, that was taking longer. 

The Fuller Brush gig helped. It allowed him to go to people’s houses. He even turned out to be a fair salesman. He had a certain amount of charm that he could use to get the lady of the house to gossip over coffee. Ladies loved to talk about anything or anyone new or unusual, and a few times he heard details that intrigued him. But they never turned out to be *exactly* the woman he was seeking. 

John got some more water and put the reels back on the projector.

The film continued as the others he remembered… he and Thomas toasting with a Pepsi; the boardwalk scenes, even kissing Helen. Then the static frames. They seemed longer than last night.

Impatient, John rewound the film, to he and Thomas drinking sodas. Yes, there they were, leaning back against the store. Still the TVs, with the mysterious negro… now if he watched he might be able to better lip-read Thomas’s comment.

He saw himself and Thomas watching the colored man, and then the film went to the three of them on the sidewalk. John re-wound the film one more time. Nothing showing Thomas commenting…

Befuddled, he continued watching, sitting through the long bit of static. Maybe he’d imagined Thomas saying something, but now at least, he would see the scene with the bus.

The static finally ended. There was Thomas, all right, but not an older version. Just Thomas at the age he was. He was in a group of boys, and what looked like a boating show. He was joking with his friends, and all the faces were white…

“I haven’t got to the bus scene yet,” thought John. “I must’ve forgot this part. I really do need to lay off the booze…”

He continued to watch, and the scene repeated itself, but never the scene with the bus. Then the frames went blank, and that was the end of the film. 

John rubbed his chin hard. He looked at the canister; yes, it was the one marked _“Langer.” _He rewound the film one more time, drinking only water. None of the scenes from last night. Even the scene of kissing Helen did not touch him as it had last night.__

____

He turned off the projector, defeated. Were the whiskey and the whirr of running reels making him fantasize things that never were? He wondered whether the films made him fell more alive, or if they deadened him, after all. 

____

He got up, looked at his watch. Daphne would be at the roadhouse club, practicing with Wash and the boys for tonight. He would surprise her with a visit. She would be thrilled – she always thrilled to see him. He thought of her slow smile, her plump curves. Whatever whiskey he might or might not drink today - she, at least, was real.

____


	14. The Emcee

When he got there, Daphne was walking around carrying two outfits, talking at the Emcee.

“C’mon, let’s try it out on the crowd,” she was saying, shaking a blue dress in his face.

“Looks purty ritzy… not the kinda thing ya wanna spill beer on.”

“And this is?” she asked, holding up a red one. “Besides, I ain’t sloppy; I don’t spill beer.”

“No, but a patron might, an’ by the way, that’s what we need more of… you _interactin’_ wit’ the patrons. Let’s get likker sales up! You cozy up to the guys, they drink more booze!”

“Huh! You make it sound like I’m some escort, not a jazz singer.”

The Emcee put a toothpick in his mouth and chewed it awhile. “Yeh, well, it’s _all_ entertainment, and some kinds is worth more to the bottom line.” He eyed her buttocks pointedly.

John stepped forward. “Hey!” he said. His voice was soft, but there was definitely menace in it “I come here nights, and I like the singer just fine! Why don’t you let her be? Let make her own decisions. You pay _her_ to be the artist, don’t you?”

The Emcee chewed. He recognized the salesman, all right, and knew he was getting his money’s worth from the stiff. “Yeh. Alright. Just some people gotta remember whose doin’ the payin’. “ He loped off the stage to the back office, in a sour mood.

“Davie!” Daphne went up and hugged him, “That Emcee has some ideas... didn’t you come in the nick of time! ”


	15. The Minute You Walked In The Joint

Daphne pulled him back into her dressing, room, and was hanging up both dresses.

“You’re changing your set.”

Daphne brushed the velvet skirt of the blue dress with her hand. “It’s ‘bout time I worked up a new one. For a while, though, I’m goin’ to do both. I was brushing up on the old set when the Em came in.”

She nodded at the red dress for “the old one.” A shiver of recognition went through him. She had worn that dress the first night he saw her…

She went back out to the stage; he followed, getting a club soda.

Daphne wore clamdiggers and a poplin shirt for practice, but in his mind he saw her as she had been, in that dress.

The dress was red satin, strapless, velvet trim around the top of the bustier and all the way down the sides, like the stripes on a man’s tuxedo pants. The dress was covered with red spangles to catch the light. It was a trampy dress, certainly by Reich standards; though human nature was not much different anywhere else, John concluded.

It had been raining hard that night; he had driven all day from Rapid City in showers and occasional thunderstorms. The damp cold had gone clean through him.

He saw the roadhouse’s garish neon and stopped. He’d eaten dinner on the road, and he had reservations at the hotel, but it was mid-evening and he wanted a drink. Of course, he was thinking about Helen. He always thought about Helen. Or Thomas…

The room was not crowded, and out of exhaustion as much as anything, he chose what he thought was a back table. Then he noticed he was sitting next to a small stage. Well, all right. Maybe a show would be fun…

The music played now in practice, as it had then. A series of brash notes, repeating.

_“The minute you walked in the joint/ I could tell you were a man of distinction/ A real big spender..”_

The spotlight came on, and he had laid eyes on the ballsiest singer he could ever have imagined, in a red dress that looked like it had been poured on. Her voice was pure, strong, and a bit growly; it struck him. Those spangles and brassy hair and red, red lips, catching the stage light. It was an adjustment after grey skies and wet roads.

_“Good looking/ so refined/ say wouldn’t’cha like to know what’s going on in my mind…”_

He had noticed that the singer had caught his eye. No doubt about it, she was looking right at him. Singing directly to him. He had shifted in his chair, uncomfortable. He didn’t want attention this trip, at all. But her intent gaze was rather… flattering.

Like some fool, he’d gone up to her as she was standing at the bar after the set. “So, Miss Leigh… do you always make such… direct eye contact with your audience?”

“I don’t usually look at anyone at-all. My eye is fixed on a spot over their heads.”

_“So let me get right to the point/ I don’t pop my cork for every guy I see…”_

“So what’s different now?”

She laughed a kittenish little laugh, and smoked her cigarette. “Not very often do I get to see the ideal guy to sing it to...” She had looked him up and down, liking what she saw.

“I - I’m not… an ideal anything. Just a salesman passing through…”

She motioned the barkeep to bring them another round, “I bet… you’re good at anythin’ you set yer mind to, Mr. Travelin’ Salesman!”

He couldn’t help it; he was flattered. Immensely, idiotically so. Still acting like a fool, he introduced himself, inventing a new name on the spot, continuing to make chit-chat.

_"…How’s about a few laughs, laughs/ I could show you a good time/ Let me show you a… good time!”_

John suppressed a grin. This song had the cheesiest lyrics; he thought so then, and thought so now. Yet he realized that she was singing to him still, even in practice, even just working through the bridge.

He had sat that night through a few more of her songs, then moved on to the hotel before it got too late, ignoring her glances and her obvious invitation.

But h came back, first sporadically, then regularly, to hear her sing. Gradually, he found himself teasing her, flirting with her – in bounds, of course. He’d told her, vaguely, he’d had a wife; that he missed her. He’d never said if she’d left or if she’d died. Daphne didn’t ask for details.

_“So let me get right to the point/ I don’t pop my cork for every guy I see…”_

How was it that he’d ended up spending evenings with her, not just at the roadhouse, but often crashing at her place? Always “crashing”; he kept some toiletries and a change of clothes there, but always sleeping on the couch or the murphy bed. He would dance with her to those old records, he would kiss her cheek or forehead, he would murmur mindless things to her, late into the night. But some things he would not do, nor did he follow her to the main bedroom.

He looked down, shaking the ice cubes in his club soda. Thomas was gone. _Helen_ was gone.

_“Hey big spender/ hey big spender/ Spe-e-end, a little time with me…”_

He looked at his lovely blonde, all business-like in her clamdiggers, coming over to sit with him after the song.

She stretched her arms on the table top, and he gently took one of her hands. How strong yet soft it was. He pressed it to his lips.

“Why, Dave!” she said, a little surprise in her voice. “Yer cuddly all of a sudden…”

Whenever he initiated touching her, it was always late at night, always private. And, he had to admit, half-reluctantly and usually half-soused. Yet she was always there for him: admiring, approving, loyal. She deserved more than half-caresses. She wanted, maybe even needed more. He needed it, too.

“Are you on break?” he asked.

“We’re off for the afternoon. Wanna go back home? I can make you lunch…”

“I’ve eaten, thanks,” he said. “But…” - he lowered his voice, tucked a hank of hair behind her ear – “Yes. I want to go home with you.”


	16. Moonlight Serenade

John had his car, so they drove to her place. They had walked in the door when John reached his arm around her waist, pulling her to him. “What’s going on with the Emcee? Seems like a strange argument…”

Daphne brushed his hair with her hand and went to grab a cig. “Nothin’ strange about it, Hon, not to me. No matter what place you’re in, from scuzzy beer bar to grand hotel, the Emcee or manager or whoever it is, is always wanting you to… how’d he say it? _Interact with the patrons_. Sing the sexy song. Or send a special dedication to some visitin’ bigwig. You can do it, if you keep your wits about you…” she blew out some cigarette smoke.

“Daphne… I don’t like the sound of this.”

She stubbed out the cigarette. “I’m sayin’ you _can_ , if you don’t take ‘em seriously. It’s the new girls who get their heads turned that go all _escort_ and land in jail.” She smoothed a finger over his eyebrow. “It’s part of the game, like any other job.”

“You have to do this, to be an artist, a singer? But if you have talent…”

“Ah, ye-aah, if you have talent, you’ll go places. We heard that, didn’ we, when we were young. An’ maybe back then, you could.”

“Thing is, Kid, you gotta have _places_ if you’re gonna have places to go. Where’m I gonna go? The Reich? Ohhhh, they’ll love my kinda music. The Jap states? Hon, they’re ten times worse, they really do want you to be a prostitute ‘cause they look down on us. God, to think we fought an’ lost a war against these guys…”

He went to her, holding her hands. “I watch you practice. I see your talent! You’re unique… special. They might be common songs, but you have a real quality…”

He looked down at her, staring into her eyes. Of course she knew she was good, but she looked at him as if she’d never hear kind words before. Could that be, that no one ever said sweet words to her to lift her up? Or had she come to mistrust all compliments, wondering what the angle behind them was?

“That socializing… do you have to? You don’t deserve that indignity. _I_ don’t want you to do it.”

She looked at him a long time, then broke his hold.

“ ‘Dignity’ for us gals… ‘s that a Chicago concept? You’re nightclubs must be real different…”

“Well… I don’t know. I didn’t go to nightclubs Back East. Didn’t have any reason to…”

“Oh! Why… Dave?!”

John lifted his head, both pleased and alarmed. He just meant because he had duties, had a family, and because nightclubs were rare - and somewhat frowned on. But she had read it that she was the reason…

She chattered on. “I haven’t really, for some time, anyhow, bothered with socializing. Other than just when passing to an’ fro, to the stage. “ An’ besides, since you came…”

John considered… yes, that was true about Back East. But it’s also true, I do come back because of her. Her songs, of course, but more than that. Her combination of sass but sweet. I love that I’m wonderful in her eyes… And that, somehow, without going over the actual past… we see to dream in a golden past…

She took his hand, and led him to the living room. “Let’s dance, hmm? I love dancing with you. You move marvelously.”

She put a record on; it was “Moonlight Serenade.”

“Well,” he said, half-talking to himself, “is there anything wrong with a man being drawn to a place because he loves a certain performer?”

“Mmm, no. Nothing at all.”

He pressed his hand tighter against her back. The sway of her body filled him. She felt so lovingly about him, yearning for his kindness.

He took her head in both his hands and turned her face up to look at him. Her blue-grey eyes shone with surprise. He had never been so direct.

She was his for the taking. He bent his face to hers, touching her lips lightly. Then he relaxed and kissed her again, deeply, wanting to fall into her. Here was pleasure, here and now, pleasure and comfort that he could no longer deny either of them anymore.


	17. Always Have An Understudy

The rays of the late afternoon sun angled across their bare skin. They had made love well, and often; now they were both drowsy. He smoothed her hair.

After a moment, she stretched herself, and John had to admit he rather liked the display. She sat up, running her fingers through his chest hair. “That stupid roadhouse. I’d rather stay in with you tonight.”

He kissed her shoulder. “I’d rather you did, too.”

She grabbed the telephone from the nightstand. “Always have an understudy,” she said. “You never know when,” – she coughed – “you hab a co’d cobing on.”

“You’re bad…” he said. He couldn’t resist stroking her.

“I know.” The phone picked up on the other end, “Hi, Doralee? This is Daphne. Yeh, can you sing tonight? Yeah, I got the junk. It’s goin’ around. Wou’d’ya? Oh, thanks.”

She hung up and lay back in bed. “Doralee – that’s the bar girl – useta sing jazz and blues, back in the day. She’s been trying to get at least a song in, and that Em won’t let her. Says it’s too risky to let a negro up there. I don’t know why; Wash and the boys are always right on stage with me. Anyhow, now he won’t have a choice.”

John took her in his arms. “Clever _and_ cute,” said John, kissing her lightly, then fervently. “Daphne… I don’t know what I would have done, if I hadn’t met you.”

She pulled him on top of her, positioning herself so he had the sensation of her breasts rubbing against him. “Hon, you keep talking like that, I… I’ll fall in love with you.” As if she hadn’t, a hundred times over.

“Don’t fall in love with me. I’m not worth it.” He kissed her face and neck. “But it’s true. I have been so lonely, and you’ve helped with that loneliness. So much…”

He was feeling her, all of her, her hardened nipples, the wriggles of pleasure, her golden bush entwining with his pubic hair, electrifying him. He had come a long way from the stern sexual mores of the Reich. But when such love was being so tenderly offered, it would be a sin not to take it… a sin not to give back in return.


	18. Black Coffee

John rolled over, and glanced at the clock. 7 am. What a lie-a-bed! He closed his eyes, half-dreaming, half-registering that he was out West somewhere. If he were back in New York he would be shaved, showered, and dressed by now, heading toward breakfast. He would wonder if Bridget made waffles or if Helen took over and made eggs and bacon. He rubbed his eyes and felt the mattress move, and a woman’s arm enfold him.

“Mmmm, Davie, you’re pullin’ the covers off,” said the woman sleepily.

He looked down at the fragile hand with the hot pink nail polish. Daphne was beginning to awake, and he felt her touching him pleasurably, stroking his buttocks, working her hand in his chest hair.

He turned to face her. “Oh, all right then, I’ll warm you up, for a bit.” Her body was very inviting. She opened one eye, then closed it again. “You really are real,” she said. “Thought maybe it was just a beautiful dream.”

“I’m not a dream, beautiful or otherwise, but you’re beauty itself this morning. You’re always beautiful. Know what else isn’t a dream? I’m hungry. Isn’t it time for breakfast?”

Daphne started to yawn and get up, but John leaned over her. “You will not get up. You’ll stay right here – believe it or not, I can manage in the kitchen. I’ll bring you breakfast.”

He started the coffee first, because he needed it, and soon the good smell of java brewing filled the apartment. As he toodled about making breakfast, he heard Daphne humming and singing something slow and jazzy.

_“I walk the floor and watch the door/ And in between I drink/ black coffee…”_

He’d found some ham, was frying it, and he thought about Helen. He was surprised to find that he could fret about Helen and glory in Daphne, holding them both in his mind. Guilt would come eventually, he knew, but right now he was insulated in a bubble.

_“Lord how slow the moments go/ When all I do is pour/ black coffee..”_

In his bubble, he wondered where Helen was. _If_ she was. What route she’d taken, what restaurants she and the girls ate at. Wondered if they’d stopped at any roadside attractions…

John worried about the girls, but he somehow knew that Jennifer and Amy were safe, and would somehow always be safe. He would catch up with them and take them home to New York. Helen was a wild card. He didn’t own her; he knew that now. John hoped he would find her, and that she’d come of her own free will. If not…

_“Now, a man is born to go a-loving/ A woman's born to weep and fret…_

John knew that there wouldn’t be a day that went by without thinking of Helen. He suddenly realized that if he lost Daphne, he would end up thinking and wondering about her, too. With a bit of a sigh, he looked over the tray, and took the plates to the bedroom…

“Here we are, breakfast à lá Finn.” He’d made them ham, eggs, toast, and the requisite cup of joe. “I hope you like the eggs. I only know how to make scrambled.”

“Davie, it’s perfect! Why, no one’s ever made me breakfast in bed before!”

“Every woman should be treated to that… at least once in her life.” He smiled wryly; it was such a tradition in the Reich to do that for Mother’s Day. But of course, it was only for mothers…

“You’re quite the cook.” She sipped the coffee. “You make your java pretty strong. Just how I like it, though. _‘…In between, it's nicotine/And not much heart to fight/Black Coffee…’_

They ate a while in silence, then Daphne asked, “Are you in town today?”

“No, I need to go out towards Park City again. Might be in late. Are you debuting the new set?”

“Not yet, Hon. Gotta tweak it a bit. I got a new I-talian song, “ _Volare_ ”, and the words are a mouthful. You weren’t in Europe, by chance, during the War?”

“ No. I saw the Pacific, like most of us GIs.”

“Oh, I’m not surprised. Still, if you’d been in the I-talian theater, you could help me with those stupid words.”

John laughed drily. “You know, we got pretty well destroyed there. I’d have been busy saving my hide, not learning the lingo…”

“Well, never mind, you just stay in tonight, whenever you get in, and get some rest. You can hear the new set tomorrow.”

“All right, love.” He took her chin in his hand, leaning into her, touching his lips to hers. Breakfast or no, he had to kiss her again, make love to her again, before they had to leave.


	19. A Message From New York

Himmler had rung the phone, impatiently for the 3rd time. No answer. “It’s eleven o’clock,” he hollered at the videophone. 

“Well, it’s only 8 or 9 in the morning out there,” said Metzger, helpfully. The baleful glance he got from the Führer made it clear that he hadn’t mollified things at all.

“What is the hotel he is staying at?”

“I… don’t know off the top of my head, sir, but I will look it up, post-haste, sir!”

“Look it up and call them. Leave a message at the front desk that the Reichsmarschall should contact the GNR headquarters immediately! You call them this time, in case our friend is just very busy. You can be bland, polite, like this is routine. But be warned that if he does not call soon, I will call, and if I get no satisfaction, I will promise them this will be settled!”

“Yes, mein Führer!” Metzger ducked out of the room, partly to take care of the matter promptly, and partly to get away from Himmler’s anger.

Dear me, thought Metzger to himself. He was just a simple farmboy from Wisconsin, who’d come up through the Hitlerjugend, and found himself with the assignment of his life. He felt rather bad for Reichsmarschall Smith. Sure, Thomas was a hero and all, but the loss of a boy had to hurt all the same. And now his wife was out of town. 

He finally got the clerk at the Northern Hotel, and as nicely as he could while still being official, relayed his message. He hoped Smith would call soon. Himmler appeared to be running out of patience.


	20. The Empty Cave

John walked to the car, whistling softly. It had been an afternoon and night of deep happiness for him. But it was now mid-morning… and after the love, after the quiet holding, after breakfast in bed together, it was time to get to business.

Once again, John headed west, hoping the cave would be empty today.

The weather was crappy… more mizzling rain. Thunderstorms were predicted farther off in the Rockies. But no one was on the road, and John had warm clothes and sturdy, rubber-soled boots.

There were no signs of any sort of approach, and though the hike was damp and unpleasant, when he got to the cave, there were no signs of Jimmy Red Cloud, or any other visitor. Apparently whatever Indians there were around, they didn’t hunt mule deer in the rain.

He had a new flashlight in his pocket, and a lantern with him, along with other supplies. He had a handful of pebbles in his pockets, and he threw a couple of them carefully against the walls, or down the shaft, and listened. Nothing but echoes.

He lit the lantern, and made his way carefully. A steno pad and pencil were in his pocket. He had a compass with him, and he noted the bearing, along with the number of paces that he stayed at a compass point.

As usual, he stopped often and looked behind and around at his bearings, noting landmarks. He stood with the lantern and did a 360 at various points, looking for scratchings, paintings, traces of guidelines – any sign of use or habitation.

When he came to a dark crook or turn in the tunnel, he threw a few more pebbles and waited’ til he felt he was clear to go on. He scanned the floor of the cave continuously, not just to guide his feet, but to look for any other traces or artifacts of any kind.

He looked up… there was still a sliver of greyish light at the entrance of the cave. Smith shivered. It would have been better to come on a sunny day, after all. With the gloom overhead, even when he came out, he would have to trust his notes, the feeling in his calves of the upward climb; otherwise, the gray sky would disorient him and make him go around in circles.

John took a couple of deep breaths, and he looked carefully at the kerosene flame. It was still steady and bright. He smelled the air. He knew that carbon monoxide would be odorless, but he wanted to sniff out any other changes, if he could. He held the lantern a bit further ahead of him and proceeded.

It was odd. It should be getting cooler, but it didn’t. He looked at his compass, he looked at the hair on his arms and felt the hair on the nape of his neck. Nothing was different, except that he had changed direction slightly. He noted all this on his steno pad. He put it back in his pocket and thought.

He decided that this cave was entirely natural in origin, and had never been enlarged by man. There was no evidence that it was used for mining in any way, nor ever been tried for a stake. _No paleface ever set foot here._

Where the hell did that phrase come from? John stood agape. Something like terror massaged the back of his brain.

He put a fist to his mouth, calming his breathing. He had better not hyperventilate… he looked at the lantern. The flame was big, bright, and steadfast. Thank god…

He took a few trembling steps. He focused on his task; marking the compass bearings, sweeping the cave visually. The pebbles were different. Before they had been pretty much the same greyish color as the rock of the surrounding foothills. But here there were little lumps of white, or red, or black; occasionally a yellowish orange. John stooped down and picked up one of the whitish lumps and stroked it across the back of his hand. It left a pale streak.

John fought the urge to cough and clear his throat. He got up, and continued forward, watching the compass carefully. His bearing was west, but he noted that the compass needle was starting to swing a bit…

He felt the need for light, and used both the flashlight and lantern – carefully - as his eyes swept the cave in front of him. He reckoned from the way the light bent that there was a big cavern up ahead.

Guided with little more than his gut feeling, he turned off the flashlight, and lowered the lantern, while still keeping it arms’ length. The cavern might be dangerous. And keeping the flame low, it would detect heavy gasses seeping from the cavern, if it wavered. He spotted little rocks with ridges in them.

His foot slipped a little, and he stooped down to the ground, pausing til he got his balance back. Curious, he picked up one of the ridged rocks. But it crumbled a little as he picked it up; it wasn’t a rock at all. His nose twisted knowledgeably as he caught its scent. It was exactly the smell of the Thanksgiving dressing he’d eaten as a child.

The compass was swinging wildly at this point; it would be no good to help him get his bearings, and he noted that on the steno (after having noted his paces and briefly describing the porch to the cavern, as best he could). He decided that he should leave soon, and come back another day, to explore the cavern in depth. (Try to pick a sunny one, Smith! he thought to himself.) But he wanted to do one more thing…

He carefully walked three paces (the compass was just spinning like a drunkard, now), squatted down, and he took out some lambswool and two metal rods. He rubbed one rod vigorously with the wool; he could just about see the spark as the two rod tips got closer…

 _Bam_! John was knocked out cold. But it had not been a shock traveling up his body from the electricity; it was a heavy blow from behind.


	21. Liam

Liam walked into the warehouse, dropping off some crates of cigarettes. “Here you are, Harry!”

“Hey, this is some of the good stuff,” said the man, pawing through them and pulling out a pack of Camels. “These were everywhere before the War. I didn’t know they still made them?”

“There’s a cell in old Carolina that grows the tobacco, and ships it to NM. People there got a factory where they package them as Camels. Hopefully when people see them, they get the same memories you did about before the War, and start thinking differently. And Billings is the perfect place from which to start planting a few of these Back East – starting with Nebraska and the Dakotas.”

“I like!” said Harry. He was a bald guy with a bow-tie and had the air of a company yes-man and bean-counter. Not surprising, as he’d been a payroll clerk for the Atchinson, Topeka, & Santa Fe, before the war.

Harry knocked the bottom of the crate. There was a slight metallic ring. “And, heyyyyy… girlie-flics!” He rubbed his hands in glee.

“Yep, soft- and hardcore. Distribute the right films to the right clientele.”

Girlie-flics was code for the Abendsen’s films. Softcore meant that the scenes showed life as it would have been, had American and Britain won. It was good for raising morale for the already converted. Hardcore meant that battle and victory scenes were in the films. To win over skeptical followers.

“Speaking of girlies…” said Harry, “Heard a rumor today about a redhead. Older lady.”

Liam whistled. “His wife?”

“Hard to say… but if so, she’s in Colorado.”

“How about kid?. Did she have any kids with her?”

“Couldn’t say. She was spotted at a café. She got coffee and sandwiches to go, according to the source.”

“Follow it. I want to find her. I have to be the first person to find her.”

Harry pressed his fingertips together, pursing his lips. “Have you heard anything about him? Last I heard, he was out in Chicago.”

Liam paused, looking thoughtful. “I reckon that’s right. He’d start in a big city, trying to find Resistance cells to report on. He won’t come out to the NZ without support, and a plan to destroy.”

“Yehhh, he’s a bad one. Shame, though; they say he was a hero, during the War. “

“So I’ve heard.” Liam grabbed one of the packs and pulled out a cigarette, sticking it in his mouth, dangling. “Still, he’s got that wife, and rumor is they are –were - very much a loving couple. First Family of the Reich, you might say.”

“She’s pretty. Some tasty bait,” said Harry, looking at the picture of her that Gary had sent out.

Liam went out and lit up. The Wy-Mont units were on orders from Gary, the Resistance leader, to look for Helen Smith. Kidnap her and the kids if they could, and hold them to drag the Oberstgruppenführer in. If not, kidnap the kids - kill her if they had to.

They were told just to listen for news of Smith, and report anything. In the odd case that he were spotted, they were not to try and track him, as he was too dangerous (and probably too heavily guarded) for such action.

The Irishman scratched the side of his face. Gary hadn’t sent out surveillance pics for Smith. There were some pics of him in the Reich since his son’s death and promotion to Reichsmarschall, but his face was not very well known in the Neutral Zone - at least not yet. But Juliana had described him in detail, before she disappeared, and his contacts in the GNR had some of the news clips showing him.

Liam turned the features over in his mind and whistled. He hadn’t realized it then, but the man in the diner fit that description, sure.

He thought back to New York. He remembered a night, several months ago; he’d shot at Himmler, and a handsome SS man had been standing next to the Führer, looking on. Liam shivered… if that man was Smith! Also, how had Smith, who was known to be vicious in crushing rebels, let him get away, especially with an attempted assassination? He must not have seen him, thought Liam, or I’d have been beaten to death by now.

A memory came up, of a much earlier time in New York. A fledgling Resistance group had been massacred in a bar, and he and the other survivors had to retreat. They’d been followed by two SS, but the Resisters had piled into a getaway truck he was driving. The height and gait of one of the men was distinctive, and it reminded him of the man next to the Führer. Again, Liam had escaped.

Liam exhaled. He had seen Smith, sure; of that he had no doubt.

But, Liam decided, he was right to keep Harry in the dark. He had questions of his own that he wanted the man to answer. And what with New York; Juliana; that cave in the Poconos… something was pulling them – pulling things - together for a reckoning. Smith was to be his quarry, his alone; his quarry, alive. And with Helen, also alive, for bait.


	22. Papoose

The floor of the cave was cold and hard; John could feel it as he moved uncomfortably. The air was damp, more like the caves he’d been in, long ago, as a boy scout. A scent of woodsmoke was blowing towards him, mixed with something else – that Thanksgiving-dressing-smell he’d smelled before – and he knew that he was being smudged with sage.

He opened his eyes, and tried to move. He couldn’t move, and as he looked around, he saw that he was wrapped in an old blanket, with a braid of some kind wrapped around him. Amulets were attached to the braid at various points.

John wriggled around some more. His body itself wasn’t bound, just the blanket round him. He also realized that he had no clothes on. Naked as a babe; swaddled like a papoose. 

Papoose - not a bad comparison, he thought, looking around, and laughing to himself. Of course Red Cloud was there. Standing some ways behind him was a handsome younger Indian with a pompadour, a scar across his cheek. John knew there were a couple more behind him, but between the swaddling and the pain in his head, he couldn’t turn around to look…

Red Cloud came to him. He wore the Stetson with the beaded headband, and he was wearing an olive jacket over his ranch gear. John’s sight was wavering in the dim smoky light, but he tried to concentrate on the insignia. He tried to speak, to ask questions, but his lips and throat were dry.

“Hey, now, don’t talk. Now’s not the time for you to talk. “ He had a cup with a straw in it. “Drink.”

“Wh-what’s in it?”

“Water. Mostly. Some herbs.”

“Herbs?”

Jimmy nodded. John had little choice. But he was thirsty, so he drank. He had to trust…

Jimmy leaned it. John thought he noticed a patch for troops who were in the Pacific. He drank again; the water was bitter, and that was the herbs. 

He was getting sleepy, and he hoped the herbs were for actual sleep, not some poison. Jimmy leaned over, placing something under his head for a pillow. John’s eyes fluttered under the herbs’ effect, but he had caught at least a few letters on the name tag. He had made out “EGAY”. He tried to fasten that onto his mind. He could feel himself sinking, though, and stopped fighting it… he sunk back into sleep…


	23. Oyster Crackers & Gossip

There was a food stand around the corner from the warehouse, and Liam walked there. Chili was on today, so Liam ordered a cup, and asked for oyster crackers.

A woman had been lounging inside the stand, but when the cook handed the chili to Liam, she put on her scarf and coat, and went outside, following him as he walked away.

“That’s funny, I always order mine with oyster crackers, too,” she called out.

“Small world!” said Liam. “Help yourself!”

He turned to look at her. She was just like Gary said she’d be – light-skinned, almost “high yaller”, with a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She looked quite elegant, and her voice was rich and low.

“Gary says you used to play clubs in the JPS. Is that where you met Miss Leigh?”

“No, sir. Our clubs were considerably more underground than the venues she played. Nah, she’s a white girl, so she sang to the better sort of Pons. And high-class Nazi guests who wanted a night out with the mud people.”

She laughed. “We got the ones who were poor - or slumming. When it comes down to it, Pons and the ‘Zis are just the same. Shakin’ yer tail is what makes the world go ‘round, Mr. Wyatt.” She laughed again, bitterly.

“Is that what Miss Leigh is to this salesman I hear about? A piece of tail?”

“Hmm… not in the usual sense. He moves awful slow for all that.” She reached for some of the oyster crackers. “He likes her, actually. They’re about the same age, I reckon. Sometimes she comes in the morning, and she’s humming some old song – Andrews Sisters or something - and she says he kind of reminded her about it.”

“Does he look like a ‘Zi? Act like one?”

“No. Not at-all. He’s always polite to me if I’m serving. Well-behaved and quiet. Always respectful to Daphne.”

Liam considered. “Quiet? Too quiet for a traveling salesman?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.” She seemed annoyed.

“What does he looks like?”

She set about describing him – greying curly hair; prominent eyes and cheekbones; large & well-formed hands. Usually came in with a dark fedora. Liam was certain it was Oberstgruppenführer Smith.

The woman couldn’t resist some gossip, “I think she’s gone on him. He likes the attention, that’s for sure. I think they’re together some nights. Though, being a salesman and all… well, I just keep hoping Daph won’t fall too hard. ‘Cause what about when he leaves?”

She grabbed some more oyster crackers, frowning. “Do you really think he’s our man? That’s he’s the OGF? Gary said he was dangerous.”

Liam looked thoughtful. Finally, he shook his head. “Nah. Like you say, our target is dangerous. This guy sounds all wrong for that. Eh, just some older guy having a fling. We can’t go finding OGFs in every guy with cheekbones. Put it out of your mind.”

The negress sighed with relief. “Well, thank the Good Lord for that. I would about die if I thought our Main Attraction was falling in love with Mr. Head Nazi.”

“Like I say, put it out of your mind. “ he said. The woman nodded, and went on her way.

Liam had the information he needed – and even extra. He knew now how to get Smith down to Colorado, he just had to develop his plan. Because the latest tips definitely placed the Missus there, maybe even in Denver itself.


	24. Lieutenant John Smith

He was waking up again, and as he shifted slightly, he realized that he laid on what seemed like a pile of reeds. But he was warm and relaxed in the blanket. Out of habit he stretched, wiggling his toes, and he realized that though wrapped in the blanket, he could move freely - they had removed the binding.

“Begay,” he thought to himself. He watched the pattern of the firelight on the roof of the cave. The Indian who called himself Jimmy Red Cloud was really named Begay.

He was still sleepy from the herbs, and stretched again. He felt as if he were alone, and so he closed his eyes, drowsing and not really wanting to get up.

“I don’ know why we don’ just dump him in the toolies,” said a voice. That must have been the younger Indian, thought John. “If this is the man you say you knew…” John kept his eyes shut

“He _was_ a hero during the War. We were brothers-in-arms.” It was Jimmy’s – Begay’s – voice. “You were just a kid… you don’t have the memory…”

“Ohhh, he sure remembered you, di’n’ he?”

“Using your mind to remember stuff is a funny thing,” said Begay. You can say that again, thought John. Begay continued. “It kin lead you wrong, even at the best o’ times. In something like a war… who knows what happens in the brain? I kin remember everything about that day, even though I got a brain fever that very night an’ had to go to a field hospital. But even though my part of Iwo Jima took hours, I don’t even ‘member being there – and I got a purple heart for it!”

“So, anyhow, there we were, several platoons, all tryin’ to escape the Solomons. It was the worst mess I ever saw. It was a rout…”

“To make things worse, the patrol boats was s’posed to come get us, and they di’n’t. Half of them was lost, too! We was s’posed to get that 109 one, but that fool Lieutenant Kennedy got him and his crew in the path of a Jap destroyer. They all died painfully, and I ain’t too sorry – ‘cept that it put us in a spot.” Begay’s voice turned bitter. “What was him and his fool brother doin’ in that war, anyhow? His Pa was an ole appeaser, anyhow. Wou’dn’ be surprised if them boys weren’t sympathizers.”

John clenched his jaw, clamped his eyes shut in anger. He didn’t dare say anything, but if he could, he would have given them a piece of his mind. “You’re wrong about Jack,” he wanted to say. He’d met Lieutenant Kennedy once, in DC. “He was a good man. He didn’t share his father’s ideas at all.” He swallowed, remembering his conversation with the young Navy man. “He had far-reaching ideas, he saw the Nazi threat better than any of us; he knew his history – and still managed to keep his idealism.”

John swallowed again, sorry for the young man – and sorry he couldn’t have been more like him. Though Jack had faced different circumstances… he died before he could have a wife and kids. Perhaps if young Kennedy had been in his shoes… yet there was something shining about him that John saw absent in himself.

“Anyhow, there we were, on this li’l scrap of sand and lava rock. I don’t think there was even a palm tree.” Begay softly slapped his leg and chuckled. “And this - thing - comes hurtling toward us, making a noise, an’ embeds itself. Right there, in the sand. This bomb, just sitting there. It didn’t blow up, and we didn’ know if it’s live or a dud.

“Lieutenant Smith had been on the other side of the atoll, trying to scout ships. Well, in no time he had a plan to get most of the men to the other side of the island, and organized the engineers to set up the best shelters they could, in case the thing went off.

“I kinda hung around, milling about, with my radio box, not knowing if Smith wanted me here or there. He was ignoring me, more or less, but he got the medics together, and he got a stethoscope from one, to listen to that bomb. Wouldn’ let the medic do it, but sent him off a ways.

“So there it was, just he and I. It was kinda surreal, ‘cause we didn’ know each other at-all. Well, I watched, and Smith’s eyes widened. ‘It’s a live one,’ he told me. ‘Do we have a munitions man?’ “

“ ‘Did, Sir. He was killed in the firefight,’I told him. Smith cursed. I ‘member that, ‘cause he wasn’t loud about it like some men are. He practic’lly whispered it. Then he turned to me. ‘You’re a radio man.’ ‘I am, sir.” ‘Code-speaker?’ ‘Yes, sir!’ One was proud to be Indian when they asked that.”

You had cause to be, thought Smith. He was remembering now. The Solomons, the incident, the young code-speaker, all of it.

“ ‘Get me a munitions expert, and sergeant…? Please be sure to speak Navaho, or whatever it is,’ he told me. Well, it took a while to find both the munitions guy, and another Diné.”

John was remembering, too. It had taken a long time – sweat crept down his skin, not from the tropic heat only. He’d talked to the young Navaho. James Louis Begay, staff sergeant; he was from Northern Arizona. Call me Lou, said the sergeant. John, he’d asked the sarge to call him. Then that long wait to find another munitions guy. They’d talked about their childhoods – sheepherding in the Arizona canyons for Begay, playing on the streets of Manhattan for himself. They had talked as if they were long-lost friends with all the time in the world.

Lou continued, though John could have told the story himself. “We found the munitions guy, and the Diné and we talked code, and I talked Lieutenant Smith through the how-tos. I never saw anyone so calm as Lieutenant Smith. Of course, he was a hero! We all knew what he had done for us! It was our one bit of legend from that dreadful Solomons campaign, and no one who was on that island will ever forget it! No man ever deserved a medal more.”

One other man did, thought John. His saliva turned sour. That other man surely deserved that medal as well.

There was a long pause. “Where’s your medal, Jimmy?”

“Didn’t want one!” said Begay. He laughed, a high-pitched laugh. “Oh... there was talk, but I knew they’d never give an ole Indian a medal for jus’ talkin’ on the radio. Why, it was my job!” Another cackle. “Look, this man here, he tried. He tried to talk me into it, an’ he tried to make ‘em give it to me. I said to him, ‘What’s the use? We know what happened. They can’t take that away from us.’ ”

He grumbled about it, but he saw my point. But he looked at me as a brother-in-arms - his brother-in-arms. And that was enough for me. It was enough that a red man and a paleface were finally brothers.”

The men were silent for a while. Eventually, the younger Indian snorted. “Yeah, and what about after the War?”

A silence. “What about it? We lost.”

“And look what side he picked. You want to help him? Now?”

“I need to help him. If I can.”

“He’s beyond help.”

Begay sighed deeply. “Go away, kid. Let me spend a while alone with him. Give me some time.”

The younger man sniffed, and walked away. John heard the soft shuffle of moccasins approaching and knew Begay was coming to him. He decided to keep his eyes closed, but his muscles were tensed.

He smelled the sage, and guessed that Begay was smudging himself. Then the whiff of sage circled John’s head, and he knew he himself was being smudged – cleansed. Despite himself, he opened his eyes.

Begay looked at him very softly, almost with love. He reached out his hand and put it on John’s shoulder. “You been not yourself for a long, long time, now, friend. Almos’ too many moons,” he said. “But… you’ll be ok, John.”


	25. Names

John nodded. “All right. As you say… Lou.”

Begay started. “I thought you was sleeping. What all did you hear?”

“Enough. Enough to remember the staff sergeant who chased sheep as a kid.” John gave a half-smile. “Why are you going by Jimmy Red Cloud?” 

“Jimmy is my name.” The Indian smiled. “Why are you going by Dave Finn?”

“I think you know why.”

Begay considered. “Well, ack-tually, I don’t. I can see why you would’n’ use your real name out here, but I don’t know why you’re out in Montana.”

There was a heavy silence between them. “I prob’ly di’n’ have to change my name.” said Begay. “You see, I moved here after spending time in San Fran. I di’n’ know that thanks to yer Axis friends, what Indians are left in the NZ were so small in number and so shook up, that we’ve all kinda amalgamated. Specially the young. Same with all our traditions, our crafts, our ceremonies. Pan-Indian.” Begay wheezed softly. 

“But… when I came here, I dropped the Begay because I figured the Indians around here would wonder what a Navaho is doin’ up here. An’ I’d rather they don’t. Not their business; it’s between me ‘n’ a certain party. ” Begay smiled. “So I took a name maybe more appropriate to the area. 

“Red Cloud was a great warrior,” said Smith. “He resisted the coming of us white men.”

“Ye-es. Is that a way of asking if I’m Resistance, John?”

“I’m remembering history. Sometimes there are historical parallels…”

Begay leaned back, half-smiling.

“Yeah, I’m Resistance. So’s Daphne. So’s the Emcee at the bar where she works, and so’s the clerk at your hotel.” John’s eyebrows shot up, thinking of the work before him. “But not the way you think. The Resistance – the real true Resistance – is just living. Living as you want to live, or as close to it as you can get. Living in truth. An’ each an’ everyone who lives in the NZ, or tries to escape here, is doin’ just that. “

The Indian took out a carved red pipe, filled it with tobacco from a beaded pouch, and lit it. “But I can tell you, Lieutenant, that I a’n’t fightin’. Not that way. Not with tommyhawk, an’ not with guns. I fight with the only thing I got – my spirit.” Begay puffed on the pipe a bit, exhaled, then extended the pipe to Smith.

John sat up on his elbows, unsure what to do. Begay kept the pipe extended. Cautiously, John pulled his arm out from the blanket, and reached for the pipe. His hand shook a bit, but when he touched the pipe, his hand was firm again. Slowly, he put the pipe to his mouth, and smoked.


	26. Come To The Grand Palace

Liam went back into the warehouse and called Denver, asking for the manager of the Grand Palace.

“Hi, Tony, this is Liam. Did that rancher from Canon City ever bring in those Rocky Mountain Oysters?” Since oysters – the real ones – looked somewhat like ears, it was a good way to refer to spies and espionage. That included any Resistance folks Liam didn’t want listening.

“Nah, I guess he had other customers to tend to. You had any up in Montana?”

“No oysters… but I think I spotted a rancher. A big one.”

Long silence on the other end. “Ranchers” of course meant Nazis or their operatives, and Liam could just about see Tony drumming his fingers on the top of the bar. “How big?”

“Let’s just say, that if this were Texas – we’d be talking the owner of the King Ranch.”

Sharp whistle from the other end. “Oh, man, Liam, you gotta be careful. What’ya gonna do? You gonna need snipers to capture him?”

“I’m not gonna capture him up here. I _think_ I could get him one-on-one, and I’ve discovered a chink or two in his armor. But I’d rather use it to get him down there where I’ve got a crew and we can capture him alive.”

“Good idea. No sense going _mano e mano_ with such a bad guy.”

“Now look, I don’t want Connell or Lem or any of them to know about this. What I do want, Tony, is for you to free up a spot for a Nightclub singer.”

“Ok, that ain’t a problem; we ain’t been so busy lately. Can I ask what you need it for?”

“Do you have a spot or not?”

Tony knew from working with Liam in Chicago that it was best not to push it. “Ok, you want it soon, I got later this month, startin' the 25th for 'bout a month. If she's any good, get her indefonite'ly, 'cause I'm sicka fly-by-night groups.  How's that; that ok?”

“That’s fine. I’ll be going down to her place of business this afternoon and try and sign her on.”

“All right. Is it ok if I know her name? We’re gonna want posters I s’pose.”

“Daphne Leigh. Sings jazz and such. I’ll try and get a publicity photo. And Tony, have you ever heard any more about that redhead?”

“You mean that pretty redhead with the two girls? Yeah! They’re staying out in Aurora.”

“ _Aurora_? Tony… are you pulling my leg? What’s she doing there?”

“Can’t say! You don’ want me to axe questions; _Trudy_ don’ want me to axe questions. So, Tony don’ axe no questions!”

“All right, Tony. I’ll call you in a day or two.” He hung up the line.

Liam went to his motel, to put on his double-breasted pin-striped suit and do his impression of a talent scout. Too bad Smith wasn’t on their side, he thought; the man was surely a better master of disguise than anything the Resistance had.

It was good to know where Helen was, too, and that she was down by Denver. Anything he could use to get Smith was a plus.

Still, it mystified him what the wife and family of the biggest Nazi in the country would be doing holed up so close to Resistance folks. Had Smith trained his wife to be a spy, and all this running away was just a ruse? And how was Trudy Crain involved with all this?


	27. To Go On Quest

The cave was very warm, or maybe it seemed warmer to Smith since sharing the Peace Pipe. They alternated between comfortable silence and mild chatting.

Begay decided to turn the conversation. “What’re you lookin’ for, out here, John?”

Smith paused. Military training, both US Army and Reich, suggested to him to stall, equivocate, maybe even sound threatening. He could say - with credibility- that he was sent here to spy on and smash the Resistance.

But he had been drawing from the pipe with Lou for some time. So he inhaled deeply, and exhaled deeply, and let out a great cloud of smoke. He handed the pipe back to Lou and leaned back, closing his eyes.

“After you conked me on the head, did you pick up my gear?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you find?”

Now Lou pulled on the pipe. “Compass, wool & metal -- stuff to find ‘electromagnetic energy,’ Maybe even to find fluxes in the field.”

John grinned. “Well, I found it, didn’t I?”

Lou nodded. “As did Elders of other Tribes. By other means.”

“So it is here. A window, maybe a portal, to another universe.”

“To many universes. Maybe all of them.” John moved forward, leaning toward Lou. The Indian chuckled; the questions were burning in Smith’s eyes. He watched a progression of feelings: elation; confusion; horror; and finally, awe.

“ _How_? How do you choose? How do you go there? _Can_ you come back?”

“Can _you_? What do _you_ need; who are _you_ lookin’ for; how much can _you_ handle?”

“I… I can’t answer… ”

“You’re bein’ prepped to find out.”

John lowered his head and swallowed.

“I…understand that people who actually go… are killed… or die…” Unbidden, his mind went back to the mine in Pennsylvania, and the subjects bloodily sacrificed in Mengele’s experiment.

“If they’re not Travelers.” Smith perked up at the word.

“But only a few are Travelers,” said John.

“Yeh. But you don’ have to be a traveler. There’s other ways of gettin’ the knowledge.” Lou said to John “The point ain’t to _physically_ go to the spirit-world. Point is, to travel in spirit, and bring the other world to your ‘real’ one.” Lou took a puff on the pipe. “What our people call Shaman.”

John snorted. “Not everyone’s a Shaman. For most of us, there’s no chance.”

Lou leaned over, lowering his voice. “Most Indians would agree with you, John. ‘Specially nowadays, when we’ve lost our ways. But… at some level, in some way… all of us are Shamans. If we accept it.”

John looked at him, intrigued, but struggling with this odd belief.

“But you don’ haveta know the ins and outs, unnerstand, or even believe all of it, to get what you need. Not everyone who goes on Quest does. But the gift is offered to all men starting their life journey.”

Smith smiled, ruefully. “I’m a little old for a vision quest, I’m afraid. I’m not a young man.”

“No… but yer on a journey. “


	28. Walk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to clarify for this chapter that I am no expert in either the Vision Quest, nor its preparation... and that from what I understand, the preparation varies. I've adapted this ceremony to be symbolic and meaningful for John, and to show that under the Reich, many legitimate traditions would have been lost or altered in a sort of "pan-Indian" congress. Nothing but respect is meant for Native Americans and their spirituality; please forgive any false appropriation of the culture.

Lou pulled some things out of a beaded buckskin bag. They were powders… John recognized ocher and some other pigments. He heard a rattle, a drum, and chanting. The young Indian and some others came into the area, chanting softly. John guessed the young Indian was the one who thought he was beyond help. 

Two of the Indians pulled the blanket off John, so that he was completely naked. Begay started chanting… a different song that what the others were singing. John thought they might be a sort of incantation. At any rate, he was smearing the patterns onto John’s skin, many of which were spirals or labyrinths. 

With white clay, Lou drew an arrow over John’s heart. John looked down, and Lou chuckled.

“Yeah,” he murmured, “you recognize the pattern of the zigzag… the thunderbolt. It can mean death. Or it can mean purity. Revelation. The thunderbird is waaay older than your eagles, John… and our thunder brings new life with the rainstorms, not death with storms of ashes…”

As if by signal, the young Indian stepped forward and put a blindfold around John, hoisting him to his feet, and pushing him forward. Someone stepped in front of him and led him by the hand – John was sure it was Begay. They moved onward, and as they moved, the cave seemed hotter and hotter. The chanting, too, seemed louder. 

John was brought up sharp, but his toes felt something hot - something searing, in fact. He was sweating powerfully… not just from heat, but from fear. 

“Are you prepared to walk the path of coals?” someone asked.

Lou whispered some words into John’s ears.

“I am prepared to walk the path of coals,” said John. He felt very far from it; his voice shook.

“Lead him,” said the voice.

A cup of bitter liquid was poured into his mouth, and then he was pushed forward, holding what was surely Lou’s hand. The walk was painful but brief, and surprisingly he survived.

John could tell there was another coalbed before him. The same call-and-response was put; the same bitter drink poured into him. John walked, determined to conquer his fear, and he felt the heat but not as much pain. The heat was very tiring…

He was brought up short a third time, and the same litany, the same bitter drink. John again was determined to walk, to face whatever he needed to.

The third walk he felt… nothing. Nothing except maybe a mild euphoria. A mighty chorus rose up, and John was made to sit down on something. 

“I am going to take off your blindfold, now,” said Lou, “But do not open your eyes until you no longer hear the chanting.”

Sure enough, John felt the fabric lift away from his face. He kept his eyes shut. The chanting was growing softer, but he would wait until he could no longer hear it.


	29. Blue Moon

Liam walked into the bar and saw the young negress. He touched the brim of his fedora in what he hoped was a sharp gesture. The girl told him that Daphne would be practicing soon. He ordered a gin and tonic and sat at a back table.

Daphne had decided to dress for rehearsal as she would for her set. Liam watched her take the stage – she looked like a gal who knew what it was all about.

The dress was surprisingly ladylike, he thought… tea-length blue velvet skirt; the top was a light blue satiny material with a draped neck.

_“Blue moon/You saw me standing alone…”_

She certainly had the chops. And the brassy hair. He smirked a bit, thinking of John Smith, Pillar of Nazi Society, chasing after a dyed-hair chanteuse.

_“Without a dream in my heart/Without a love of my own…”_

Liam flipped a pen about in his hands; she really _did_ have the chops. With that dress and that old Rodgers-Hart classic, maybe the old gal could even have done one of the better dine-and-dance clubs in the Reich. He smiled, imagining Mr. and Mrs. Smith going to the “21” and dancing to this song, without the Mrs. ever knowing about her hubby’s affair with the performer.

_“And then there suddenly appeared before me/The only one my heart will ever know…”_

She was doing it with a slow tempo, and Liam let his mind wander. Was the singer going to Denver enough bait for Smith? Maybe. Maybe he’d forgotten all about Wifey… but the kids? The Reichsmarschall was not the sort of man to relinquish his hold on the next generation. And since he wanted the girls, he’d have to find their mother.

He clapped as the song ended. The singer smiled, and launched into some Italian lyrics. It was some bootleg song he’d heard Tony hum back in Denver.

 _“E cantare…”_ sang the blonde, but Liam was writing busily on some scraps of paper. He went to the negress.

“You’ll holler this to me when I give you a hand signal, when I’m almost done talking to her…” he nodded his head toward Daphne “…and then, just to be safe, when he comes in, you give this one to him. Same message.”

_“Penso che un sogno così non ritorni mai più…”_

“Is that necessary?” asked the girl.

“I think it is,” said Liam, in that brook-no-argument tone he’d used on Tony.

_“Mi dipingi con le mani e la faccia di blu…”_

“Ok, boss,” she said.

_“Poi d'improvviso venivo dal vento rapito/E incominciavo a volare nel cielo infinito…”_

Liam sat down for the rest of the song… it was nonsense, as far as he was concerned. But, he was a talent scout, so when Daphne finished, he clapped and even whistled.

She was startled, but, trained to please, she bowed at the applause, and when he approached the stage, she went over to him. Mix and mingle.

“Say, you’re good! What’s a talent like you doing in a dive like this?”

“Aw, thanks! I’m a jazz singer; jazz is what I do. You know how it is, man… my kind are lucky to get a venue, let alone choose ‘em.”

He smiled a worldly smile and said in a conspiratorial whisper, “Why, a gal like you could play the Grand Palace, if you wanted to.”

“The Grand Palace? In Denver?” She rolled her eyes in surprise, but he could tell it was mock-surprise. She knew she was good.

“You could play it; you could have ‘em in the palm of your hand!” he took out the contractual papers, and wheedled her.

“I dunno… I got a gig here…” she looked around “..but I could maybe get Wash or Doralee to take a month for me….”

The Palace was too much to resist, though; Liam knew it. After they went over some details, and as she finished signing, he made a sign to the bargirl.

“Anybody seen Mr. Finn?” she called out. “ I got a message for him. Lady down in Denver called, askin' 'bout gettin' in sales. Maybe workin’ a territory. A Helen somebody…”

Daphne straightened up. “I’m gonna see Davie tonight or tomorrow night, Doralee. I’ll let him know.” She gave Liam a sidelong look. “Well, maybe we'll make it a two-fer trip; business for him, business for me.” She dimpled at the thought.


	30. On The Bus - Tommy's Dad

Suddenly John realized that there was silence – not just the absence of chanting and singing, but an oppressive silence. He could open his eyes now. Like a child, he felt safer with them closed…

But this was silliness; he had come so far to seek visions and answers. So he opened his eyes. John huffed out a laugh; it was so dark, there was hardly any difference.

Soon, John felt, he was walking around. His steps were guided toward something silvery-gray.

The silence started to break. He heard music in the background – he didn’t recognize the tune, but could tell it was pop stuff for the teens. Things got much brighter, and he was walking toward a Greyhound bus or something. He walked faster, and soon he was behind a dark-haired boy. His own dark-haired boy.

The boy turned/ “Dad, there you are!”

John’s heart was bursting; he could have cried with happiness. He wanted to scoop up his son and run all the way home with him, like he used to when Thomas was little. Never let anything hurt him again…

But he guessed that might not be the right response, so he wrapped his arm around his shoulder and gave him a noogie. “Well, when are we going to get there, Tommy?” Not that John knew where “there” was.

“Well, once we leave New York, they say we’re picking up some more students in Philly, and then, down to Greensboro. They say it’ll be a 10-hr. trip.”

John looked around to see if there were any other faces he knew. He vaguely recognized that girl that Thomas liked from school – he could never remember her name - and at the end of the parking lot he saw a bunch of women and children, waving.

“Be careful, Tommy,” called out one of their voices, and John looked, but the speaker and her two children walked under a tree before he could distinguish them.

“Dad, you have no idea how proud I am of you, taking this trip with me. A lot of kids asked their parents, but no one would come.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world!” said John cheerfully. He had no idea what he was doing…

“Oh, hi, Mr. Smith! It’s so neat to see you,” said a chipper voice.

“Thank you, Annie; did you save us some seats?” Anna! That was Thomas’s girl’s name.

“Sure did! Guys,” she called to the folks on the bus, “This is Tommy’s Dad, Mr. Smith!”

“Hi, Mr. Smith!” they called back.

John waved and sat beside Thomas, and looked around. He saw negroes, and kids who looked like they might have some Semite blood. He glanced at Thomas and Anna. They were talking very earnestly.

John leaded his head back, and just listened. He caught names like King, or maybe it was Luther King, and some Malcolm fellow with the last name of Eks. Then something about civil rights. He guessed the reference to civil rights had to do with civil law. That was fine; Thomas could be a lawyer…

“Tommy, have you ever thought about being a lawyer?” he asked.

“Ye-es. Once I finish my undergrad.” John realized that in this reality, his boy had entered Princeton early. Such a smart kid! John looked around and saw that most of the kids were college age. And Thomas had become popular with them. John was proud.

He continued to listen to the chatter. Now they were talking about something called The Negro Question and getting the vote. Something called integration. John sat up with a start. Now he remembered! This was the bus he’d seen on the film! And they weren’t going to some death camp; they were going South, to North Carolina, for whatever strange reason - and in this world, blacks and whites lived together!

As John was thinking this through, a stringy-haired girl from the seat in front of them turned around and leaned over . She wasn’t wearing any makeup, and her chunky black turtleneck looked secondhand.

“Mr. Smith, Tommy says you were a Captain in the army, and you fought for recognition of the Code-Talkers! Cool! Can you tell us about it?”

“I… I don’t think I did anything…”

“Oh, but you _did_ do something extraordinary! Because of you, Louis Begay is a Congressman!” The bus applauded.

John wanted to sink into his seat. “Look, I only did what was decent…” he said, and told them about the Solomons. Really, it was kind of a mixed-up, almost funny story, of him and Lou trying to defuse a bomb to keep their asses from being blown up, but the kids gobbled it up. He had no idea what Lou being a congressman was about…

“And then he contacted Kennedy, and we all know what happened next!” said Thomas proudly.

“Well, Lieutenant John Kennedy was a PT boat captain… if that’s what you mean. He would have sympathized, of course, because of his own time in the Solomons. It was vicious…”

“And you told Senator Kennedy, and he got the Eisenhower administration to honor Begay!”

 _Eisenhower?_ The great General had not been killed, after all? And had become President, even?

“Plus, they all got to speak to President Kennedy; I mean, then-Senator Kennedy,” said Anna. _What?_ _Lt. Kennedy also lived and became president?_

“Woooowwww…” said Stringy.

“I like Bobby better,” said Thomas. “See, Dad, I told you I was thinking about the law!”

“That’s great, son.” Who the hell was Bobby? “Well. What I tried to do was just a matter of common decency.”

“Common decency. Neat-o! That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it, everybody? That’s what we’re here for!” said Anna. Everyone agreed and clapped.

“Mmm,” said John, “hand me that information.” Anna gave him a sheaf of materials.

John read, and he talked to Thomas and Anna – every once in a while Stringy popped up with her two cents’ worth – and John realized the sea change. Not only had the Colored survived in America in this world, they were now demanding equal rights, under the law. And, for some of them, even a wider integration into society. John rubbed his forehead.

“Are you tired, Dad? You spent most of the day at work. Did you eat? Jennifer made us some brownies…”

“I’m fine, Son. But, yes, I am a bit exhausted. I’m just going to lean back… seems like there’s a lot going on.”

“Yes, there is. Lots of work to do. It won’t all happen immediately, but it will happen. And we can start now!”

John put his hand on Thomas’s arm. “I’m proud of you, Tommy. I knew you were going to grow up to be a fine young man, but this is beyond what I could ever have dreamed.”


	31. On The Bus - John's Dream

Soon Thomas and Anna were chatting again. Well, that was love - sitting together and talking endlessly about nothing at all. He and Helen still gabbed for hours. Or had. Well, if she were in this world, perhaps they still did.

John’s vision was getting blurry; he was up too late for his old bones. He drifted off…

Thomas was older now, and Anna was beside him, in a bridal gown. Now here he was in an office, surrounded by law books. Next he was holding a tiny baby – oh, so small! He was beaming, and was telling someone, “Annie and I decided to name him after Dad.” 

Now he was older yet again… John was shocked to see faint silver hairs on his boy. But Thomas’s face was unlined. He was passionately giving a speech, and a lot of people were listening and cheering. Then he was amongst a crowd, shaking hands. Someone started a chant. “Smith for Senate! Smith for Senate!” 

Next, John saw Thomas in a TV studio. “I owe everything to my Mom and Dad. They raised me with a strong work ethic, and good values. I miss them every day,” he said. “Well, I am sure they are looking down from above, proud of New York’s newest Senator,” said the interviewer. The vision shifted to Thomas standing in the Senate chamber, making his oath. 

And then… John just slept.


	32. On The Bus - The Klansman

John jerked awake, after feeling a rocking motion.  He must have been sleepier than he thought, if he imagined the bus was rocking him to sleep…  
  
But no, this was no gentle rocking to sleep!  The bus _was_ rocking, and there was yelling outside.  Somebody or somebodies were pounding on the bus’s aluminum sides.  Anna was screaming.  
  
John saw torches; what was this, _Kristallnacht_ all over again?  He was glad he had a window seat, maybe he could block the vision from the terrified kids.  John looked out again.  These were no Nazi thugs… these were Klansmen!  
  
Thomas stood resolute, telling people to get away from the windows or get under the seats.  John could see the bus driver standing firm, holding onto the door lever with all his might.  
  
A sound of  breaking glass, then someone screamed.  One of the Kluxers had gotten in through one of the bus’s rear windows.  He  had a bat and was swinging it at one of the negro women.  
  
Thomas leapt from his seat before John could stop him.  He tried to subdue the Kluxer, but  he was frail next to that sheet-clad fat pig.  John went to help Thomas, and together they were starting to subdue the klansman...  
  
“You dirty nigger-lovers!” the Kluxer yelled.  He  broke away from them.  
  
Thomas kept trying to save people, pulling some of the negro women behind him, giving them them some shelter.  He didn’t even see that the fat Kluxer had a gun- and was aiming it…  
  
“Noooo!” screamed John.  This pig must not hurt his boy, his precious son!  He lunged at the man.  
  
A searing pain burst through John’s midsection and he lurched forward.  He had gotten up, then he’d fallen down again.  But Thomas was safe.  True, he couldn’t see his boy, but he knew it, somehow.  At last, Thomas was safe.

Then all went dark…


	33. Debriefing

“John. John! Talk to me!” The voice was Lou Begay’s.

John sat up. His belly no longer hurt. In fact, nothing hurt. Begay’s face was marked with concern.

“Why, hi Lou! Are you a Congressman yet?”

Lou looked at him very seriously for a moment. Then his mouth turned up in a grin. John laughed. Then Lou laughed! For five minutes they just looked at each other and laughed.

Finally, Lou wiped his eyes. “Well, that must’a been one helluva vision quest, if you think I’s a Congressman!” They clasped hands.

“It was a good vision, Lou.”

“You gave me a scare at the end, though. You got up and whooped, and then you kinda keeled over, an’ for a moment, I couldn’ find yer pulse. You was pale as a ghost – or as if you’d seen one.”

“No. No ghosts. Just some people pretending to be. Bad people, trying to bring back the bad old days. But they didn’t win, Lou. My boy did.”

“Well, you know, you really ought to talk about it. Don’t judge it, don’t overthink it, just tell it – in all its detail.”

“Like a debriefing?”

“Kind of.”

Lou explained that now was time for John to voice his vision, his newfound meaning, so he could walk forward on his path. He took John into a small side-cavern where they would talk in private again, aided by the peace pipe.


	34. The USO Girl

John talked freely about his encounter with his son, and the different world he had seen. Lou was glad that Smith found guidance.

After describing everything with Thomas, it seemed John wanted to say or ask about something more. And, yet, there was a reticence to him.

Lou pushed. “You made peace with your son’s life and death in this world, and other life in other worlds. But… what else? Is there something else that brought you to Montana?”

John turned his head… “I… I’m following a woman…”

“Daphne?” Lou seemed surprised. “The USO girl?”

“No. It’s a different woman I’m searching for.” Now John looked quizzical. “You… you met Daphne in the USO?”

Lou’s face softened as he started talking of Daphne. “Yeh. During the war; when I took that brain fever. She entertained us at the hospital, then she visited us. She held my hand.” Lou rubbed his hand, as if he could feel hers upon him. “I believe she pulled me through. Jus’ with that bit o’ kindness.”

“But you know how it is… I shipped out, she moved on, an’ I didn’t see her. Then, in Frisco, after I came back, I was working as a bodyguard for some Nips… an’ I saw her. She was workin’ in a seedy club. I took a side job there as a dishwasher, kept an eye on her. She found me out eventually.”

“Anyhow, she ain’t no city girl. Grew up in the Dakotas. She kept tellin’ me she wanted outta the JPS. One day, she said she was just gonna do it, gonna go East to the Zone. In those days, ya know, the truce wasn’t so good…” John nodded; he remembered the chaos as the Reich and the Empire divvied up the spoils. “So, I said I was sick o’ the city too, an’ could I drive her? You know the rest… she works the club, I became ‘an Injun’ out here, and we’re friends. We keep tabs on each other; an’ I check things out at the club ev’ry so often.”

“You care for her a great deal.”

Lou looked away, and was silent a moment. Then he made a dismissive gesture. “Oh, don’ worry. She don’t have no romantic feelings for me .”

John ducked his head. “I… I wish she did. She shouldn’t spend them on me…”


	35. Keeping His Own Counsel

“Why?” said Lou. “Don’t you want her?”

“It’s not that! It’s… other things.” John buried his head in his hands.

“Someone out East? Someone back home?”

John lifted a weary face. “Someone who was the meaning of home. ”

Begay’s eyes widened. “Alive? Or dead?”

“I don’t know, Lou. I’ve gone back and forth on this - so many times.”

The Indian bit his lip thoughtfully. “Sounds like you need to figure this out. You want to stay and talk it out?”

John paused. “No. I… I came to find out about Thomas, and I got what I came for. I’m going to head back to town.”

Lou put a restraining hand on his arm. “Our ways are flawed, because they are not the true old ways. We’ve lost things. You should be feeling stronger, more certain.”

Smith removed the kindly arm. “Lou, I am as certain as I can be, under the circumstances. You have no idea what it really is like Back East. I got what I came for… what more can one ask?”

Begay nodded, and slowly walked toward the entrance of the cave with him. The two men were silent as they walked.

At the entrance, Lou halted abruptly. “Call on me John, if ya need to talk. You maybe need more guidance. You don’ always hafeta keep yer own counsel.”

“That’s a hard habit to break, Lou…”

Begay nodded again. “I unnerstand. But I’ll be around.” He grasped John’s shoulder and the two men hugged tightly before John went on his way.


	36. Wavering

As he got in the car, John wavered in his mind. The peace he had found about Thomas escaped him with Helen. He saw her in films and dreams, but intermittently; never a constant, as in his encounters with Thomas.

So, he doubted. Perhaps if she were truly gone, he would have seen her. Perhaps if she were gone, he would feel it.

Yet there was a niggling in the back of his brain. He wasn’t done with his quest for her. At the same time, she had run, so maybe she didn’t want him after all. Maybe she was justified in fearing him. He hadn’t sloughed the Nazi snakeskin yet…

John started the car, and realized he was hungry. He also realized he was lonely, and that he was tired after traveling in other lives. He fiddled with the radio (reception was lousy in the scrubby hills) and realized he didn’t want pop music, but to listen to Daphne crooning the old songs.

He rested his forehead on the steering wheel and banged his fist uselessly on the dash. He was 2000 miles from New York and god knows how many miles from Helen.

But hungers and needs and comfort-seeking circled in on him. He could drive - and would drive - to what passed for home out here, to a steak dinner, and whiskey, and jazz; and above all, to the arms of his buxom, loving Blonde. He'd hate himself for it in a few days. But right now, he needed it.


	37. Perfidia

They came home from the club early. The Emcee, having heard Doralee sing (and also looking for a new temporary headliner) suggested that she do a set. Daphne was happy to let her.

John had his arm around Daphne and they talked about Doralee’s song choices of “Straighten Up & Fly Right” and “Why Don’t You Do Right?”

“A bit old-fashioned, but pretty peppy stuff,” said Daphne.

“I like old-fashioned,” said John. He went to the record player and put on a record. Artie Shaw came on, playing “Moonglow.” John held out his arms to Daphne. She came into his arms, and he held her tight while they danced.

“So, Davie, this why you like the old stuff…”

“Mmmm, yes,” he admitted, tracing her hair with soft fingertips. “I can hold you in my arms and forget… everything else.”

“There is _some_ modern music you can dance to…”

He took her face in her hands and kissed her. “I want to remember a simpler time. A better time.”

She looked at him, dreamy but distant. “These songs… our boys loved these songs. They gave them hope. Hope for love. Hope for home…”

She looked about to say something more, but remained silent. She looked out the window, remembering. Was she thinking of the troops she entertained in the USO? And was she remembering anyone in particular – and had he died? Or still alive?…

He chucked her under the chin, looking at her, and he saw her eyes were only for him. He sighed contentedly, holding her tighter, feeling the warmth of her body. He wanted it never to end…

But the song ended and Daphne stepped to the phonograph. “You don’t hear this one much, but it’s beautiful. I love it.”

The needle kissed the vinyl and the sweet melody of Glenn Miller played.

“Ahhh, I remember! I love it, too,” John said. They swayed and turned as one.

Daphne sang, and John joined her.

_“To you my heart cries out, Perfidia,_  
_For I found you, the love of my life, in somebody else’s arms,_  
_Your eyes are echoing, Perfidia,_  
_Forgetful of our promise of love, you’re sharing another’s charms.”_

_“With a sad lament my dreams have faded like a broken melody,”_ (sang Daphne)  
_While the gods of love look down and laugh at what romantic fools we mortals be,”_ (sang John)

 _“And now I know my love was not for you…”_ (they sang together)  
_“And so I take it back with a sigh, perfidious one,_  
_Goodbye!...”_

The lyrics faded, then slowly the song segued out. They were too deep into each other to notice. They kissed as if theirs would be the last kiss before the world blew out…

Daphne was dimly aware of the click of the phonograph needle and didn’t care. John’s hands were warm upon her and now he carried her to the bedroom, to their bed. He embraced her, and she could feel his urgency. Yet he laid her on the bed so gently…

His mouth grazed over her neck, her breasts; she reached for him with equal fervor. They gazed long and hard at each other for a moment. John was almost breathless with passion…

“Daphne! Take me back! Take me to when we were young and free... just for tonight…”

“Of course!” She let him fall into her, embracing her. “For as long as you want it…” she sighed.


	38. About Denver

John snuggled in the blankets; his brain told him to get up, but he wanted to stay in the warm bed. He flung an arm out; the other side of the bed was empty. He burrowed his face in the pillow, and thought he smelled coffee. Helen was making his breakfast; all was right with the world…

 _“It must’ve been moonglow/Way up in the blue…”_ a sweet voice crooned.

John woke with a start. He looked around sheepishly. Guilt crept in; he didn’t squash it down, but let himself feel it. He _had_ to disentangle himself. He had to find Helen, find out if she was dead or alive, and he had to find the girls. If she was alive, he had to atone for the wrongfulness of his affair.

_“I'll always remember/that moonglow gave me you…”_

John buried his head in his hands. He certainly wasn’t doing right by his beautiful singer either…

He got up, showered and shaved and got ready. He shaved as much by feel as anything… he didn’t want to look at himself in the mirror. Then to the kitchen, to face breakfast - and Daphne.

“After your scouting, you think you’re still gonna stay in Billings awhile, hon?”  She dimpled at him.

John finished munching his toast and pushed around his Canadian bacon. Well, time to breach the subject! He slupped a bit of coffee, and started off easy…

“Well, frankly… I’ve been thinking that I’ve done all I can in scouting this territory. There are other areas I want to look at…”

“Like, maybe south of here? Colorado? Maybe Denver?”

He hadn’t expected that answer! John looked at her, surprised, and a bit suspicious. Then he noticed her big smile, and a glow about her .

“I got an invite to debut at the Grand Palace! Oh, Davie, you’re right, maybe with talent you _can_ go places, even nowadays!” She got up and put her arms around him.

He exhaled. “That’s fantastic, Daph!”

“An’ Dave, I thought maybe – if you’re available, and if you’re lookin’ for new territory – you can drive me down. You stay and scout the area, and I’ll just take a bus back when I’m done. _If_ I’m done! There’s a chance – kinda a slim one – that they may even want me to stay on!”

He kissed her. “I’m so happy for you…”

“I know of _one_ opportunity you have down that way, too! When I was at the club yesterday, you got a message.” She smiled coyly.

“I got a message at the club? Not the hotel? About Denver?”

“I guess they tried the Hotel. You weren’t there so they tried the club. That’s what Doralee said - she’s got the details. This lady down in the Denver area called, asking about the Fuller Brush business, says she wants to get into it. Woman named Helen… McVay, McCrea… something like that…”


	39. Taking Care Of Business

John drove downtown, back to the hotel. He was excited by the news about Helen.

His heart clutched a bit, though, when he thought about Daphne. He rubbed his forehead, remembering…

He’d been able to keep calm while Daphne told him of Helen. Then he’d told her he had to take care of some business downtown.

She’d embraced him, not wanting to let him go. “Awww, let’s celebrate my debut some more,” she begged, motioning to the bedroom. “Before I hafta practice at the club.”

He kissed her sweetly. Truly, he felt awful about leaving her. He knew that when the time came to leave for good, he would miss her dreadfully. The thought made him shake and he kissed her harder. Even now, knowing that his wife was out there, he still wanted his sweet Daphne…

But he pulled away… reluctantly. Oh, god, the perplexity in her eyes!

“I just… I really have to take care of this business downtown. I’ve been neglecting it… I promise I’ll come to the club this afternoon, watch you practice. We’ll have dinner there before your show, hmm?”

“Ok, Davie… will taking care of this business make it easier for us to go to Denver?”

John kissed her forehead, “Yes, of course it will.” His heart was breaking for her already. And for himself, selfish thing that he was…

Daphne let him go; she always did what he wanted. He swallowed hard, remembering her hunger. He shouldn’t have kissed her like that, not after he’d been told the news.

He drove forward with new determination. The next few days would be an awful transition, but it would be worth it… he hoped for the singer, too. Perhaps – he hoped – this would be a fresh start for her.


	40. The News About Helen

And then he was back at the Northern Hotel, pacing restlessly in his room.

He kept considering the message. He’d turned it over in his mind, of course – someone leaving him a message at the club, rather than at the hotel. Vaguely he recollected mentioning the roadhouse to some of the clerks, either on his way there or coming back in the morning, and cursed his lack of caution. Whiskey was a hell of a mind-bender…

He had asked the front desk, to verify they’d gotten a message and sent it along. Unfortunately, they were understaffed so a maid was filling in. She knew less than nothing…

But there were other messages in his box at the hotel, from Klemm in New York. Klemm was one of the few SS men Smith still trusted, and he was pleased that the Major wisely used the female persona he’d given him, allowing Finn’s “sister” to write to him on the road.

There was other evidence of Helen being here out west. John looked over Klemm’s and the other agents’ reports of sightings, and the details. Sometimes an older girl went to a store somewhere, sometimes a woman and girls were at a motel, sometimes just a woman picking up food in a diner. But the children were always girls, and the woman was always a redhead. He reviewed the most recent places: Omaha; North Platte; Sterling; Fort Morgan; Keenesburg; and most recently, Derby. All heading in the right direction.

Yes, there might be a trap; almost certainly there _was_ a trap, somewhere. Denver, as a wide-open Resistance city, was fraught with dangers in any case. But Helen didn’t _feel_ dead to him. His heart leapt at the thought of her, and even applying the colder analysis of his head, he felt it was time.

He laid on the bed and closed his eyes, going over images of Helen: smiling at him in their yard in Staten Island in a sundress; lying on their suburban bed in a lacy and surprisingly wanton negligee…

John let his mind drift further: their wedding day; the wondrous first time she told him she was pregnant; the many late nights they’d made love when the children were asleep. He marshalled all those memories, resolutely discarding more recent, more painful episodes. There would be time afterwards to deal with their problems, but now he needed all the force of all they meant to each other. For she was his love and life; she was life itself…

He had to find Helen, convince her of his love, and get her and the girls to come back to New York. And then he would never let them go…

But now, he had an important call to make.


	41. Two Months

Smith picked up the phone and gave the operator the number to HQ. He wanted to get Metzger first, suss out Himmler’s mood, and then have his aide patch him through.

“Reichsmarschall, is that you?! Finally! I staved off the Führer just now, telling him I was expecting your call.” Metzger lowered his voice, “Sir, I told him that you had called, but that a thunderstorm broke our connection.”

John opened the curtain, and saw that the sun was shining in a cloudless sky. He hoped that Himmler didn’t pay too much attention to the daily weather reports. “That’s fine, Tom. Yes, yes, he does sound like he’s going to be a bearcat. Patch me through, Tom; may as well get it over with.”

“John!” screeched the voice on the line “Where haf you been? I have been waiting and waiting and _waiting_ for your call!”

“Yes, Mein Führer, I _know_ I have been awfully slow in getting back – but you have always trusted me, and you know I would not delay without a reason.”

He could almost see Himmler ruching around in his chair with impatience. “All right, I will gif you the benefit. What took so long?”

“Sir, I have solid leads on the Resistance – names, locations, even some hints of their tactics,” John lied. “And, some strong clues that I can follow to learn their long-term strategy.” He relaxed when he heard approving sounds from the other end. Then he played his cards. “And I am sure that after a few months, we can substantially cripple them, and put them in position to fall utterly.”

“A few months!” bawled Himmler. “Why months? If you have these leads, why can we not put them down in weeks!”

“Sir, do you want to make a show of force that looks good but drives them deeper into their hiding holes, or do you want to cripple them for good?”

He was greeted by mumbled German swearing.

After a pause, Himmler responded. He’d decided on a different tack.

“But mein Reichsmarschall,” he wheedled. “Months and months without you in New York? You have a position here, where you are needed. If this goes on too long, I… I would so hate to, but I would need to replace you.” The Führer paused and then put a lilt in his voice. “Besides, mein John, you are missed. The staff, your aides Klemm and Metzger… and myself. I miss your cleverness, strategizing at my side, mein John…”

A muscle in John’s jaw was working furiously. You old goat! he thought. With your continental ways and bullying decadence! How John wished he could dump this man in the Atlantic with his own two hands! But no, he had to work with this creature…

“Sir, I wouldn’t ask, if it didn’t _know_ I could get something real accomplished. Besides…” – John decided two could play the personal touch game – “I’m a New Yorker, born and bred. I _miss_ the city. I hate being in the hinterland! It’s only my devotion to the Reich that makes being out here bearable.”

Long silence… John could just about see the old man chewing the inside of his cheek. “I suppose a month...”

“Two and a half, sir, would be best. I could possibly get by on 2…”

“One and a half, then!”

“Sir, I really need just a little over two and a half , if I am going to do this properly…”

“ _NEIN!_ ” screamed the voice from the other end, “ I gif you two, und only two – no less, but no more! _Verstehst du?!_ ”

“ _Jawohl,_ Herr Führer, I will not let you down! _Danke_ for your wisdom, sir, that you’re giving me enough time to do this right!”

The old man snorted mightily. “Und also, don’t always keep me waiting _zo long_ between hearing from you!” The phone banged abruptly as Himmler hung up.

John breathed a sigh of relief. He had expected his request to be cut short. Now, he had _almost_ as much time as he thought he needed. It would have to be enough to get it done.


	42. Afternoon At The Roadhouse

_“Well alright, okay, you win/I'm in love with you…”_

Daphne was practicing at the club; polishing her new routine, and adding in a few other numbers that she thought would be good for her debut in Denver.

As promised, John had come to watch her, and he stood at the bar. He did enjoy her singing.

He had a club soda in his hand, and he drummed his fingers nervously around the rim. Doralee, the negress, had given him a note with the message Daphne had given him this morning.

He sighed. Daphne had been so excited this morning, because it meant he would come with her to Denver. John frowned, knowing that he was going to the Queen City with his lovely singer under false pretense.

_“Well alright, okay, you win/Baby, what can I do?...”_

And yes, he was lying to the Reich; but he didn’t care about the Reich or Himmler or any of that anymore. He’d won enough time to get his family. Maybe he’d scoop up Helen and the girls and build a cabin in the mountains and live off the land. Light out for the territories! - maybe that was the solution, after all…

Lou Begay came into the roadhouse; as hired-man-about-town he did odd jobs, and today he’d been helping the roadhouse owners clear the backlot. He saw Smith and came over.

“Hey, Dave! You watchin’ Daphne during practice?”

“I do, some afternoons. When I’m lonely, and not too busy.”

_“Just love me like I love you/And it won't be hard to do…”_

Lou rubbed his lower lip with his work glove. “You feelin’ lonely?”

John sighed raggedly. “Yes and no. I… I miss my wife.”

Lou gripped the bar-rail.

“She’s alive. I found out today. And I must find her.”

Lou turned his head, staring straight ahead. Well, well, the vision-quest had finally given Smith what he needed. The effect on Daphne, however…

“So you’re leaving?”

“Yes, soon. When Daphne goes to Denver, to the Grand Palace, I’m taking her…” John took the note and handed it to Begay.

_“I'll do anything you say/It's just got to be that way…”_

Lou read it and let out a low, faint whistle; his hands shook.

“Look, she knows I have business; she’s already decided to take a bus back when her debut is finished. It’s open-ended on her side, anyway… they might want to keep her on for a while. Maybe for a long time. She’s good. She deserves this.”

“Yeah. She deserves this. She deserves a lot more.” He turned pointedly to John. “In life, not just career.”

_“Well alright, okay, you win/Baby, what can I do?...”_

John bowed his head. “I was a cad. I knew I had no right and yet… ”

“Yet she gave, an’ you took.”

“I am sorry,” John whispered, “I am truly sorry for the pain this will cause.”

“You should feel sorry!” Lou said harshly. Then he looked at Smith. The man’s face was stricken. So he _had_ loved her; the pain was real for him, too.

“Yeah, good to feel sorry,” Begay continued, more kindly. “Good sign! Means you’ve left the Supermen - fin’lly joined us mortal men.”


	43. What A Lovely Way To Burn

Just a few more days and nights left in Billings. John always caught Daphne’s show at the roadhouse these last nights.

Daphne wore a dress that she planned for her debut – “this old thing,” she called it. It was black and sequined, plunging tastefully in front, and plunging even more daringly in back...

A bass thrummed. It was a new song - and the sexiest thing John had ever heard.

_“Never know how much I love you/never know how much I care…”_

She had a way of sliding into that song that could cause John to lose track of time – and everything else. He rattled the ice cubes in his club soda, and tried to think of other things…

He considered that the last few days had been very busy – especially on Daphne’s end. She’d even arranged the hotel – John for 2 nights, and herself in a separate room, for the run of her debut.

_“You give me fever/When you kiss me/Fever when you hold me tight…”_

How was it that Daphne’s voice was getting more breathily sexy? When he could least afford to concentrate on that… The song was good, though.

Smith forced a shrug. He’d been busy too, making calls to Klemm, and getting a sense of the area on maps – as well as having the car checked out and planning the route.

Somewhere around Denver Klemm seemed to lose Helen’s trail. It irritated John, but Klemm was also working on finding an operative in Denver that he would connect with. He hoped he’d find the op soon…

 _“Everybody's got the fever/That is something you all know_  
_Fever isn't such a new thing/Fever started long ago…”_

John was feeling a little warm himself. He asked Doralee for a new club soda, with plenty of ice.

He sucked on an ice cube and thought about lunch. He usually ate lunch or dinner downtown – sometimes ordering room service, sometimes hitting the little lunch counter downtown. Lately, though, he’d left the restaurant with a sense of being followed. Maybe he was losing it… maybe it was best to stick to the hotel and roadhouse.

_“Cap'n Smith and Pocahontas/Had a very mad affair…”_

Lou came to join him on these nights. If Lou had been (rightfully) angry at him, he seemed to have forgiven him, and they sat together, silently but companionably.

John considered what would happen if Lou went with them to Denver. Maybe Lou would enjoy a little fun in the big town; maybe Daphne would see him in a new light. And god knows someone needed to be there for Daphne…

_“Chicks were born to give you fever/Be it Fahrenheit or Centigrade…”_

Daphne always came over to sit with them during breaks.

“Hey, Jimmy, how’s things?” she’d always ask.

Knowing Lou's feelings, he joshed them, saying that Jimmy should go with them to Denver, see the city, and catch Daphne’s debut.

“Awww, I don’ know…” he’d always say “Maybe seen enough of cities…”

“So have I, matter of fact...” agreed Daphne “but there’s always one more shot at the big time… as bigtime as one can get in what’s left of the free world…”

John coughed.

Lou considered. “Mebbe. I don’ know… I’ll think about it…” He remained unconvinced.

Then Doralee and Wash did a set together, and the three friends left after that. John always walked or drove Daphne home. They kissed – John hoped platonically - though there was plenty of heat to her lips. But he claimed tiredness, and so did she.

“This excitement is wearing me out,” she said.

“Well, I’d better go. You need your rest, for Denver.”

“G’night, Davie.”

John left, still feeling her lips and arms. He hummed the new song to himself. She still had plenty of charm, but the burn was slower now. He might feel it, but he could tame it.

And after all, she’d given him life back, when he needed it. Some part of his heart would always keep a votive lit for that.

What a lovely way to burn…


	44. Road Trip

“ _Are_ we bringing enough luggage?” John asked.

He’d come early in the morning, and was greeted by two large cases for her show dresses, and a box for hats, shoes, and accessories. As for herself, Daphne wore a seersucker suit, and carried what looked like two old-fashioned carpetbags for daily wear.

“If I stay there, I may as well get day clothes there… something more up-to-date than anything in tacky ol’ Billings.”

“Whatever,” John said, and rearranged his Fuller Brush cases.

They ate at a diner on the south of town; John was a big believer in a good solid breakfast, but Daph downed only some coffee and toast. And half his omelet. Oh, and nibbled at his bacon.

“You could have ordered more food,” he teased her, when they got back in the car. “You sure you couldn’t let me go in and bring along a biscuit?”

“Don’t be silly; I’m so excited I couldn’t eat another bite!” She put her purse on the floor, and he saw she’d snuck in a bag. She opened it. “Besides, I got us sticky buns…”

At last they were en route. “Fine day for a road trip!” said John. The weather was clear, expected to be in the 60s, and in the 70’s in Denver for the next few days. “What’s the name of the hotel again?”

“Davie, you mean you don’t know where you’re going?”

“Of course I do. I know exactly how to get there.” He handed her a sheet of paper with a detailed map and instructions. “I just can’t remember the name with this old brain of mine.”

“It’s the Oxford, and your brain is the same age as mine.”

Soon they started driving through what used to be the Crow Reservation, and they talked about Jimmy. Daphne told him about the USO – she didn’t know that he already knew about all that, but it was fun to listen to her take.

“I suppose you were used to soldiers admiring you…”

“I was, but his devotion was different. All I did was try to cheer a feller up, but I guess he looked at me like a singing Florence Nightingale.”

“You were, to him.”

Daphne looked out the window and fell silent. John’s thoughts were about Lou, then turned to the Indian nations, long subdued. He had always been torn, Back East, between the futility of their fight, and their utter bravery and skill with what they had, in the face of incredible odds. He decided that if he had lived and been in the Army back then, that he would rather have deserted, rather have "gone native”, than to kill these true warriors…

The landscape changed. Daphne looked enraptured at the brown range of mountains off to their right. “The Bighorns!”

John looked – they were impressive, at least to his city-bred eyes. Yet sharp and lonely.

The Nazis and their plans of mastery, he thought, contemptuously. They not only wanted to control people, but the land itself. Schemes to drain the Mediterranean. Plans to bomb everything into obliteration. He looked at these mountains, prickly like the horns of some ancient altar, and felt the mountains, indeed, the whole earth, laughing at their hubris.

They passed the Bighorns and the land spread out again - the Great Plains. With the expanse of space and sky, Daphne talked, telling of her childhood and John talked about his.

Lunch in a tiny place called Kaycee. John ordered a cheeseburger and chocolate milk, while Daphne ordered a Club sandwich; they split the fries. It was indulgence – John had a weakness for fries, that he didn’t give into often, as he had to keep in fighting trim. Daphne said she had to watch it too.

They got some sandwiches to go. They would get to Denver late, and have to eat something on the road

Just outside Casper, John saw a few antelope. Then more… then even more! They drove for twenty miles, and on both sides of the roads, great herds of them, feeding, running with their springy run. “I’ve never seen so many… in all my life!” said Daphne.

“Amazing! I never thought I would see anything like this ever. How much beauty there is in the world!” said John.

They stopped just inside the Colorado border for their sandwiches, sticky buns, and coffee. It was a pleasant if odd picnic, and sunset began to color the sky.

John hugged Daphne, friendly-like, and let her lean against him for a moment. “Although I’ve had to be on the road, I haven’t had this nice of an actual road trip since…. Oh, not for years! Thank you.”

“Well, thank you for coming with me and for driving.”

They pushed on to Denver. At last they reached the hotel. After the business of checking in and parking and getting their luggage to their respective rooms, John collapsed onto his bed. He hoped to sleep well tonight.


	45. A Hotel Room In Denver

He’d been there about an hour or so when he’d gotten a knock on the door. A bellboy handed him a letter; he didn’t recognize the name, but it was addressed to him. It must be Klemm’s operative. Other than Daphne, no one knew where he was.

He opened it. The operative had found out various locations where Helen might be or where he’d seen her. He’d put a star by the most likely address. John looked at a map of the city, and saw it was one he could get to easily. He’d start there.

John dragged on his cigarette and thought about Daphne. He promised he’d catch her debut, and he would. All right, he’d simply scout out this place tomorrow; try and get a sense of the traffic and movements around the place; maybe see if he could see Helen herself. Then he would attend Daphne’s debut – and then get a new room in a new hotel and follow Helen full-time!

Then there was another knock at the door. Softer than the first knock.

“Coming!”

It was Daphne, of course. He knew it when she knocked. She came in and walked up to him…

He watched, immobilized.

Her arms went up around his neck and she rested her chest against his. He was aware – oh, how could he _not_ be aware - of the disturbing warmth, the caressing frisson of her. He lifted his head, looking at a spot on the wallpaper, the cowboy tintype above the nightstand, anything…

She would not be that easily deterred (he should have known); her hands went over his shoulders. He had to take them off, had to get free. So he did, holding her hands and stepping back.

“Daphne… no.” His voice strangled in his throat.

“Why… Davie!” She, too, stepped back, shocked.

“I’m sorry; I’m so… sorry.” The last word came out at barely a whisper.

“Wha... are you tired? It was a long drive…” She took a step forward, as if to soothe him.

“Yes, I am, but… Daphne! I… I’m going to go to your debut tomorrow night, and then… the next day… we have to part. I have to track down Helen.”

“Yeah, I know. You gotta meet this Denver housewife for business. But what’s that got to do with whether or not we make love? Whether we get together after your work and mine and…”

The room went dead quiet. John was looking away, embarrassed… and hurting. Daphne watched his chest heave spasmodically.

“And also,” she said slowly, ”ya always refer to this Mrs. MacWhatsit by her _first_ name. What’s with that?”

John slumped hard against the wall.

“It’s always _Helen_. Why? Who is she?”

He passed a hand over his eyes.

“I mean… what? Was it yer wife’s name or somethin’?”

“Yes. Yes, it is. It is my wife’s name…”

For a horrible moment, everything stopped.

After a while, Daphne resumed. “Is.” Her tone was flat. “Not was. _Is_.” She flopped in a chair, staring at him.

“I told you my wife was…

“You told me your wife was gone. I guess I shoulda asked if you meant _away_ or actually _dead_ …”

John looked at her tenderly. She couldn’t stand it, so she looked away

“I was… considerably mixed up. Look, my wife ran away on me, and…” oh, god! She looked at him like she’d heard it a million times before!

He hung his head. “It’s a lame excuse; I know it is. And yes, I did come out West, on a hunch, to try to find her. But her trail went cold, and then I found you; and you took away the pain…”

“Nice to know I come in handy,” she said bitterly.

“No, It’s not like that! I do care for you; and I meant it when I made love to you. I never, ever meant to hurt you…”

Oh, his eyes! They were full of pain, too! So he had loved her. She swallowed hard and turned her head.  
  
“Ahhh... don’t go cryin’ over spilt milk, Davie. If you do, we… we’ll both cry…”

Finally she let out a sigh. “Well, what changed? May as well tell me.”

John shrugged. “Simple. The trail went live.”

“And so did your feelings?”

John sighed. “My feelings for her never died. They just – didn’t know where to go.”

Daphne stood in silence for a moment. “I see,” she said. 

John started to say something, but she laid a finger on his lips. “Look, Davie, I’m askin’ you; I’m beggin’ you, don’t – Don’t! - say anything more about it.” She trembled as she fought back tears…

She shook for a minute or two, then took a deep breath. “Hey, I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold you forever. Gal like me can’t expect to get a guy like you… not for keeps.”

John reached for her hand, stroking it. “I’m not worth it, Daphne. I never was. But you deserve love… from someone who is worthy. Isn’t there _someone_? Someone under your very nose? Maybe a friend, like Jimmy Red Cloud… who knows you. Someone you can care for...”

She pulled her hand back sharply -  and she couldn’t help let out a short, sour laugh.

“If there’d been anyone I cared about, I’d’ve gone to them long ago. I a’n’t the type to hold back when I love someone, Davie. You oughta know.”

Then she left the room for good.


	46. A Bad Breakfast

Morning broke, overcast and dreary. John showered, ordered coffee, bacon, and a soft-boiled egg from room service, and unwrapped a stale sticky bun left from yesterday. Nothing was right – the egg hadboiled too long, the coffee was too bitter, the bacon greasy. His stomach lurched.

He fretted about last night. A sense of duty and fair play overtook him. He pulled on a hotel robe over his slacks and knocked on Daphne’s door. If he couldn’t love her, he could at least maybe help her with whatever she had to do today. He’d see what she needed and make his schedule to suit. It was only one day, it wasn’t romantic or sexual - and she deserved that. Maybe it would at least bring about a softer ending…

No one answered. He knocked again, calling her name. A dark-haired bellboy, Filipino-looking, walked down the hall. They did have all kinds here in the NZ…

The Filipino had seen him standing there for a while, and he nodded obsequiously as he pulled out a key to enter the room.

“Pardon, Sir, but Missy called and asked for her black box? You her husband? You locked out?”

“No, just a friend… but if she needs the box, I’d be happy to deliver it.”

“No need! She has someone to take it; I just need to get box…” The bellboy looked at him kindly, even sympathetically.

“Oh, all right, then.” John’s stomach was lurching again, and he was more than glad to go back to his room. He thought about the bellboy’s sympathetic look, and was annoyed that the boy took pity on what he probably thought was a cheap one-night stand.

John’s stomach heaved; he made it to the bathroom, but vomited all over himself before making it to the stool. Sighing, he took another shower, and grabbed a new set of slacks.

He called Major Klemm, and found out where his new (temporary) hotel was. He was upset, however, when he found out they booked him _two_ nights after tonight.

“Klemm, I don’t want to stay here beyond tonight. I really need to be in the new hotel _tomorrow_ night.”

“I will call our operative and try to make it work, but… I have to admit, these Western operatives have a tendency to work their own way.”

“Well, I hope your operative’s info about Helen’s address is better than his hotel-booking ability.”

“ _Helen’s address_ , Sir? The Denver op knows where she is?!” Klemm sucked in a sharp breath. “Why did he not tell us? I would have had someone retrieve her and you’d all have been home by now…”

Smith got a weird feeling in his stomach again. He hoped it was only the bad breakfast. At any rate, he was glad his stomach was empty.

“He didn’t say he knew where she was, Major - only some likely locations. I’ll be scouting them out.”

“Yes, sir. Be careful, sir.” The concern in Klemm’s voice was palpable.

“Right. Well, keep me posted. And fix that hotel situation!”

“Yes, sir.”


	47. Spotted At Queen City Diner

Smith hung up the line. He reviewed the map again, planning to scout out the starred location today. He looked at the various locations, first based from the current hotel, then from the new hotel… if he ever got there.

He looked at some area maps, too. Denver, “capital” of the Neutral Zone, was not a place where he wanted to stay; not for himself, certainly, and definitely not with Helen and the girls.

John wondered how he was going to convince Helen to come back with him. She’d said that she loved him, but feared him. Which was stronger? he wondered. He remembered back, decades ago, to his Grandma, and all her proverbs and folk-sayings. He heard her again, telling him in her folksy way that perfect love cast out fear…

But when had there ever been perfect love? His certainly wasn’t. This affair – he dreaded if he had to tell her about that. And Helen, too, with that psychiatrist… but he could forgive that. If in fact there’d ever been anything - other than her own unmet longing for her husband...

Enough! If he kept on in this vein, he’d be so discouraged before he began that he’d never follow through. He headed out, with the address and directions in his jacket pocket, and walked down the street.

After a few blocks, he saw a pleasant-looking restaurant. Queen City Diner, said the sign. Well, all right, he could use some decent food, and he was hungry after that botched breakfast.

A redheaded woman came in just behind him and scooted back to the kitchen – she was running late. She started to follow the tall man ahead of her with her eyes, but the cook ordered her to the back of the kitchen to peel and cut potatoes.

Helen - for it was Helen, working incognito while she figured out her next step - sighed as she put her hair into a net. She grabbed her work apron, realizing it would be a while before the pile of spuds let her look at that man again.

By and by she snuck forward, peeking at the tables. The tall man had his back to her, and he hadn’t taken his hat off yet, but the height was right. As were the hands. And the gestures

“Yer takin’ forever with those taters, girl,” said Cookie. “An’ when that’s done, you got scrubbing,” he added, pointing at a nasty sinkful.

Soon she heard a husky voice ordering. “Do you have Manhattan clam chowder?”

She didn’t care if Cookie scolded; she knew that voice, and she had to look…

“Wha? Manhattan what? Honey, we don’t even have clams!”

“I see. Well, I’ll have the beef barley soup, and a BLT. Maybe pie later. Oh, and tea, not coffee.”

“Lipton?”

“Sure.”

When the waitress started prepping the hot water, Helen came up with a package of orange spice. “Here, Maisie, give that guy in the fedora some good stuff, not that stupid old Lipton.”

“What? He didn’t ask for…”

“You didn’t offer. And anyhow, look at him! Doesn’t he look like the kind of refined gentleman who likes nice things?”

“If you say so...” The waitress took it out. Helen heard him thank her for the nice surprise.

“You were right!” the waitress told Helen. “How’d you know he wanted that?”

Helen looked up from scrubbing plates. “Oh, I don’t know, experience with men, I suppose.” And the fact that after almost 18 years of marriage I know the kind of tea my husband likes, she thought to herself.

She hoped John would order pie; she needed time to hear his voice, to look at him, while she decided what she should do…

But the cash register rang, and Helen peeked up carefully. He’d paid for his meal and left a tip on the table. He was walking out, and she recognized that purposeful stride.

She grabbed Maisie, who was going off-shift. “I need you to help me. My… my lumbago is acting up… I can’t finish! Please, take the rest of my shift…”

“Whaa? I was just going off mine!”

“Look, it’s an emergency. When I get my pay for the hours for what I have worked, the money’s yours.”

“Okayyy…”

Helen slipped out of her apron and headgear. John had already started down the street. She decided to follow him, and was glad that she had on crepe-soled shoes. She stuck close to the sides of the buildings. She wanted to run up and hug him, to hold him and never let him go. But she was cautious. What was he in Denver for, and was she safe? Was _he_ safe?

She would have been more alarmed if she had seen that she, too, had been followed out of the diner - by a man in scruffy tweed.

But the tweedy man didn’t need to follow Helen; Liam already knew where John was headed. After all, as a courtesy from Daphne’s “talent scout,” he’d graciously arranged her and John’s hotel rooms. He was merely surprised that the SS man had decided to follow up the “lead” so suddenly.


	48. Not The Right Address

Liam followed with his eyes as Helen followed John. He turned the other way and got in a car, driving a different route to get to the address.

John and Helen continued to walked at their respective distances. They turned from the bustling main street down a side street. In a block or two, it became a shabbier street – less foot traffic, more truck traffic. The grey building fronts loomed, but storefronts were shuttered.

John slowed his pace; Helen slowed hers accordingly. He stopped. Above them loomed a large sign marking the “Acme Photographic Equipment & Film Co.” The rumble of small delivery trucks could be heard behind a metal fence.

This was the area, according to the operative’s message - but his gut told them this was not the right address.

There was a red brick building half a block from John – it could have been apartments or offices. Liam and an albino negro stood at one of the windows in the building, peering through the slats of a blind. Several men with loaded weapons crouched around the wall, waiting for Liam to tell them what to do.

“Look at the paper, man; _this_ is the number…” Liam muttered to John, mentally urging him. “C’mon, then, _come on_ , you…”


	49. Back To The Hotel

John turned quickly – Helen barely had time to duck into an alley. John looked cautiously around and back, mentally taking notes. He passed the alley (Helen hid behind a dumpster) and soon was at the corner of the main street. He took out a pen or pencil, made copious notes on his papers, then turned the corner. Helen followed at a safe distance.

Back at the red brick building, Liam was swearing mightily. Opportunity missed – now he’d have to try and get Smith at the Palace! God alone knew how…

“Should we go after him, Boss?” asked the albino.

“Oh, that would be a nice scene! A horde of armed ruffians hooting down the street at what would seem to be just an ordinary citizen. No, we can’t – and if anyone tells Lem or Gary of this, they’ll be eating their guns!”

Back on the main street, John was thinking of what he’d just seen, and how to best use this new intelligence. He was sure this was the main distribution point for the films. His course of action depended…

If he didn’t find Helen or if he couldn’t bring her back… John staggered to a lamppost and bowed his head at the thought of _that_. This was a mission failure he couldn’t accept!

He straightened up and continued on. If… the worst happened… he would have no choice but to go back to New York, and save himself. A coup like this would redeem him entirely, and then some, to Himmler and the Reich. He might even be considered to succeed as Führer. It took all of John’s training and good manners not to spit on the sidewalk then and there at the very thought…

Ah, but if he did get Helen! They would have so much to talk about… so much they needed to figure out. Oh, they’d go back, and he’d tell Himmler that his wife’s trip out West had restored her to full health, and then he’d see where things lay. Talk with Klemm, maybe dribble out enough teasers to keep the High Command off his back.

Or, if he found Helen and the girls, maybe they’d all just head to the mountains. That was as likely as sprouting a new set of arms - but the pipe dream gave him a bit of comfort.

Helen followed, occupied with her own thoughts: her love of her husband and her girls’ father; her fear about the Nazi threat that loomed over them all; her trepidation about whether John felt the same about her after all that had happened; and her willingness to do whatever it took to make their relationship work.

And, in all honesty, she hoped that her loneliness would end. She felt more than a little desire to simply fall into her true love’s arms.

They came at last to one of the big hotels, and John strode in, stopping at the front desk. Helen found a chair, thankfully hidden from view by some potted palms.

“Have there been any messages for me?”

“No sir, where you expecting any?”

“I had been. I was also planning to check out tomorrow - but I may need to stay an extra night. I’m still deciding…”

“You don’t need to decide right now; just let us know tomorrow morning before check-out time. Anything else, sir?”

“Yes. Have the valet bring the car up front by 8:30 so I can catch the show at the Grand Palace.” He headed toward his room.

Helen got up to follow him. She longed to tell him how much she wanted them to be together again.

And then she stopped, her heart clunking inside her chest. What if he were sharing a room? What if there were another Nazi there? What if – oh, god – what if he had another woman in his room?

He had mentioned the Grand Palace. He was going for the 9:00 show. She would go there, watch him, see if he was alone, and try to get him to herself… she would know whether there was any hope, if she went to the Palace.

Helen looked down at her crepe-soles and her dull print workdress. She hurried home – she didn’t have much time to make herself presentable and get back downtown.


	50. At The Grand Palace

John took his seat as near the stage as he could. Daphne came out a little beforehand, mingling with some of the patrons. John noticed some pretty rough characters in the crowd, but he guessed she was used to that. He sipped a watered-down scotch; he was glad he’d brought his revolver, anyway…

In another moment she spotted him. The look on her face was mingled pleasure, pride, excitement – and a bit of wry resignation.

She smiled and walked up to him and they held each others’ hands in greeting. It was hard to know what to say.

“Well…”

“The big night!”

“Yeah… a little nervous…”

“It’ll be a success. _You’ll_ be a success.”

“Thank you.” She air-kissed his cheek and let go of his hands “I hope to sing good for you tonight.” She turned her back to him quickly and busied herself getting ready on stage.

Helen rushed in the door. She brushed her skirt nervously; she didn’t have many pretty clothes with her in her room in Denver. She wore a dark blue tweed suit with an aqua scarf tucked in around the collar. She hoped she would look pretty for John.

Liam arrived at the Palace, too, along with the albino and some of his men; he took a seat in a dark corner, and looked around.

A song with Latin percussion started.

_“When Marimba Rhythms start to play/Dance with me, make me sway...”_

John looked away from the stage. Suddenly, he locked eyes with a certain redhead. She was walking toward him, and he stood up, knowing…

_“Other dancers may be on the floor/Dear, but my eyes will see only you…”_

As she walked toward him, he saw her as she was, now in her tweed suit… and how she had looked in the hospital with Thomas as a baby at her breast… in her wedding dress… and in the gabardine dress and “Victory Roll” hairdo she had the first day they met. Then she was in his arms and he in hers.

_“I can hear the sounds of violins/Long before it begins…”_

Lights floated, refracted, and bent. A kaleidoscope of images, different times and different places presented themselves. But in each image, he was there and she was there, and they looked into each others’ eyes. She gasped and reached up to touch his face, and he knew she saw him the same way. They clasped tightly. This was the moment, their cosmic moment, when they knew themselves as they really were. Soulmates, for all time and for all eternity.


	51. Enter The Marshal

“Well, look who’s dancing,” said Liam, nudging the albino. He motioned for the rest of the men to stay sitting while he and the albino stood up, facing John and Helen.

Meanwhile, a lean, mean-looking man entered, in a dark duster. The “Marshal” from Canon City had come to town, looking for bounty, blackmail, or any trouble he could profit by and get his jollies from. He had a few boys along for a “posse.”

Some of the patrons recognized him and shrunk away, and that suited the Marshal just fine. He liked to intimidate. From Reich press releases, he recognized that guy in the fedora. And that redhead with him. He’d heard some buzz that Himmler didn’t like the ole wife. She’d be good bounty, or maybe worth something as ransom - he’d see.

He didn’t like Smith dancing with her, though – was he loyal to the Reich, or had he gone rogue, too? The Marshal’s weasely brain calculated… and he decided to take a calculated risk.

He stepped forward, practically in Smith’s face. “ _Sieg heil, Reichsmarshall!_ ” he said, raising his arm.

Liam jostled the crowd so he could get closer…

John stepped back and put himself between Helen and this creep. “Stay away, man!” The marshal ignored him, didn’t even pay attention to the hand moving inside the jacket. He wanted the wife so he grabbed Helen’s arm. “Hey, little lady…”

Blam! The Marshal hit the floor so hard it vibrated. John looked at the crumpled body, and saw the headshot he’d made. Then he saw the other wound, the chest wound. The shot he had not made.

John looked up, and locked eyes with another man. The man from the diner. The man from the getaway truck, all those years ago. 

And as John saw him, gun still poised, he knew this was the man who shot Himmler - and now, the Marshal.

“Liam!”

Liam stood between John and his men. “Run!” said Liam. John didn’t waste any time; he grabbed Helen and lit out.

The Marshal’s henchmen finally saw that their leader was killed, and now they were enraged! They swung about madly, trying to catch the Reichsmarshall and his wife, and also get Liam. Someone threw a punch. The two gangs started to fight on the floor, (one of the henchmen grabbed the Marshal’s body), then they started moving outside to settle their scores…

Liam gladly joined the melee, punching as hard as any of them. It felt good to hit! Shite! Hell and damnation! Smith had almost been his - then that damn fool intervened! Why? And what the bloody hell was this game with him and Smith? Each could have had each other countless times! Fer what fockin’ purpose were they always letting t’other go?


	52. An Old Pro

From the stage, Daphne saw. She saw Davie and the woman dancing; she saw the creep in the duster coat throwing Davie a sieg heil and calling him Reichsmarschall – something that confused and angered her. She leaned forward, as far as she could get to the edge of the stage. Then she heard a shot, and instinct made her jump from the stage. Tony saw this and tried to pull her back; he was frantic for her safety - also, he wanted to get the show back on. Daphne pushed him away; she wanted so much to run after her man…

Then the fight broke out and she saw Davie and the woman heading toward the door. The bouncers helped push the two gangs toward the door. Tony grabbed Daphne around the waist, plonking her onto the stage. “Get back up and sing!” he whispered harshly.

As she started pulling herself together for a song, Daphne knew in her gut that the woman was Helen. The name “Helen Smith” came to her, a line from old news stories… that Helen Smith? Reichsmarschall… Smith… great balls of fire! Had she actually fallen for the head of the Greater Nazi Reich? She wanted to be sick… but she couldn’t think of that now…

She and the lead pianist agreed on the next musical numbers. Bouncers secured the doors and quickly tidied up any messes. Tony was reassuring the crowd.

“Just a buncha wild-eyed goons, folks, nothin’ to worry about, they’re gone an’ it’s all under control… Say , let’s hear it again for our new singer, Daphne Leigh. Maybe she’s got some music to soothe our savage beasts!”

“Yeah, that’s right, Tony! Forget about the bums; let’s have some fun!” said Daphne. She had the tone of an old pro. Hell, she’d performed with Japs torpedoing nearby Navy bases; she could perform through anything. “Ain’t _nothin’_ that a happy song can’t cure, right, folks?” The crowd cheered.

“Here’s a new favorite of mine, and I hope you’ll like swingin’ with it just as much I do…” The band launched into the happy, swingy beats.

_"He’s a tramp/But I love him/Breaks a new heart everyday,_   
_He’s a tramp/I adore him/And I only hope he stays that way…”_

An old ranchhand walked in. He was dressed like a cowboy, but under his stetson brim were Indian features.

_“He's a tramp, he's a scoundrel/He's a rounder, he's a cad…”_

He was annoyed with himself for being late and missing the first few songs. Maybe if he’d got here on time he’d have found a friend to sit with…

_“He's a tramp, but I love him/Yes, even I have got it pretty bad…”_

He looked raptly at the singer. He’d never seen anything so beautiful! He quick looked around the room. She was the only person here he recognized.

_“You can never tell when he'll show up/He gives you plenty of trouble,_   
_I guess he's just a no 'count pup/But I wish that he were double…”_

He noted the huskiness and tremolo in the singer’s voice. He looked at her, then looked around once more at the room full of strangers, and knew that her voice bore a deep-down sorrow.

Lou ordered a double-whiskey. He was gonna need to stick around for a while, he figured...


	53. Getaway

John and Helen kept running. The sound of fighting remained down the street, but thankfully, it stayed there. John felt bad for Liam and his men, and hoped they were getting the better of their enemies. At any rate, he knew he and Helen had lost their pursuers.

They hurried down the block, getting into John’s car. They had to get away from here…

As he and Helen settled in the front seat, Helen leaned toward John, kissing his lips hard. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her as if he were starving. He was starving; starving for the love they had, and almost lost. He wanted to re-consummate their love, here, now, and forever… if only they had had time…

But time was ticking away, and John started the car, “Oh, John,” asked Helen, “Where are we going?”

“Ultimately? I don’t know. Right now I just want to get us to safety, and then when we can, to get the girls.”

“And from there?”

“I don’t know. I want you. I want the girls. I don’t know where that leaves us. I can’t go on with us apart.”

Helen considered. “If we are what you truly want – then I will go anywhere with you. I am yours, John. Whatever you decide…”

John looked at her. Her head was bowed with exhaustion and loneliness. He knew that if he asked, she would submit to whatever he said, no questions asked.

Yet that was not enough.

“Helen, look at me.”

She did so, and he saw love filling her eyes.

John pulled her to him, kissing her deeply.

“Helen! My love! I can’t just order you and expect you to trust me when you’ve had no input. We need to decide this one - _together_.”


End file.
